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MY 





TRIP TO FRANCE. 




/ 


REV. JOHN P. DONELAN. 




NEW YORK: 

EDWARD DUNIGAN & BROTHER, 
[JAMES B. KIRKERJ 
871 BROADWAY. 

1857. 




Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857, by 
JAMES B. KIRKER, 

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern 

District of New York. 




V 




THE VERY REV. LOUIS R. DELUOL, D. D., 

OF THE SEMINARY OF ST. SULPICE, PARIS, FRANCE J 


For upwards of a quarter of a century the honored Superior of St. Mary’s 
Seminary, Baltimore, The Poor Man’s Friend,—The Widow’s Protector, 
—The Orphan’s Father, —these pages are affectionately dedicated. May 
the simple offering serve to assure him in his far-off home, that his un¬ 
wearied care for his old children is still gratefully remembered—and by 
none more fondly than by the Author, 


JOHN P. DONELAN. 






















































































' 

v ■-# < w •; •• ■ i ,, » • 











' * 


. - 




















- 


















' 

















































































PREFACE. 


In presenting the following pages to the Public, 
it can hardly be necessary to enter on a formal ex¬ 
pose of the motives which induced me to write them. 
In fact it would be difficult for me to do so—more 
perplexing even than the labor of writing the work. 
Let me simply say, it has been a labor of love—a 
work prompted mainly by the smiles of those whose 
happiness is dearer to me than any human considera¬ 
tion, and whose approval would more than counter¬ 
balance any opposition. 

My readers will find a simple, straightforward 
relation of facts, events and scenes, as they occurred 
to me while penning them, with note books, refer¬ 
ences, hieroglyphics, scraps of paper, pencilled mar¬ 
gins and rough sketches before me—the unartistic 



vi 


PREFACE. 


remnants of wanderings, by day and by night, among 
exciting scenes, classic halls, and ups and downs of 
u M y Trip to France.” I have not aimed at what I 
would wish to see accomplished ; a refutation of the un- 

* generous attacks on the Catholic Churches, Convents 
and Society of France. I had the will, but I feared 
that either capacity was wanting—or that these pages 
were not the appropriate place. The best refutation 
is, perhaps, a plain, simple statement of facts as, at 
least, I met them, and as my judgment approved 
them. I have written as I felt—and as the ideas came 
to mind. 

For many interesting facts related in the follow¬ 
ing pages, I am indebted, after my own observation, 
in many cases to the recital of those once active par¬ 
ticipators in them, and who like JEneas of old, may 
exclaim, “ Quorum magna pars fui ”—to a venerable 
and worthy clergyman, now associated with me—to 
“Segur’s Expedition to Kussia”—to Thiers, Alison, 
Eoorbacher, Feller, Lamartine, and to such other au¬ 
thors as were within my reach, both in Europe and in 
my own western home. I cannot conceal the indig¬ 
nation felt on many occasions, as, looking for some 

* fact in Silliman, Grace Greenwood’s Haps and Mis¬ 
haps, Prime, and some less important productions, I 
have thrown aside in disgust and sorrow, their char- 
acterestic slanders of all I hold dear in religion. I 
can safely say that thus far, the only truly honest work 


PREFACE. 


Yll 


I have met on European travels, as far as Catholicity ^ 
is concerned, is the interesting volume from the pen 
of Haskins, of Boston, an honest, unpretending, and & 
solid production. It is time for such poisons to have 
their antidotes, and whatever may be the fate of this 
frail bark, thus launched on the waters of public 
opinion, the writer will have the approval of some 
whose opinions are dear to him—because 

“ They’re reflected from looks that he loves.” 

With this brief notice, the writer introduces his 
work to the public. In his voyagings in Italy he 
hopes to present to the young people of this country 
an interesting statement of scenes, and people, in 
“ The Seven Hilled City ” of Home. 

J. P. D. 

Hock Island, Ill., 

Easter Sunday, 1857. 































* ^ 


. 


- 

» • ' 

- * 




■ 












CHAPTER I. 


Preparations for sea—Leave-taking—Firing of signal guns—Under way— 
Author’s reflections and emotions on finding himself at sea—Anchored 
off Sandy Hook,.1 


CHAPTER II. 

First Sunday at sea—Hasty toilet—Pilot leaving steamer—“ Last link bro¬ 
ken ”—Thoughts of home and friends—A deck scene—Laughable inci¬ 
dents—Paying toll to Neptune—The lively Frenchman—Clamors for 
his breakfast—Unceremonious and early call—Our cabin passengers— 
Returned Californians—Morose Frenchman—First sensations of sea¬ 
sickness—The gong,.5 


CHAPTER III. 

Monotony of first days at sea—Disappointed in dinner—Shaving at sea— 
Early morning on the ocean—Passengers venture on deck—Our little 
Frenchman—His want of “ ze aptite! ”—Manages without it—The 
“live Yankee”—Sudden rain storm,.13 

CHAPTER IY. 

Sunrise at sea—Olla podrida conversation—Our Yankee beats a retreat— 
Consternation and fright at the sudden stopping of machinery—Laugh- 





X 


CONTENTS. 


able incidents—Cause of the stopping—Frenchman mixing soda water 
—Ship in sight—Reflections—Sunset at sea—Home sickness—Midnight 
at sea—Engine again stopped—Another sail in sight—Mrs. G. and the 
Know-Nothings,. 18 


CHAPTER Y. 

Dinner table scene at sea—Good appetite not easily satisfied at sea— 
Another Sunday on the ocean—Thoughts and recollections of home— 
Deacon Snowball’s description of the weather—Visit to the “ fire room ” 
in hold—Deadening effects of sea-sickness—A storm at sea—Sail in sight 
—Old sailor’s fish story—Land bird and land breeze—Writing home 
via Southampton—“ The event of the voyage ”—Land ho!—Revolving 
light—The Needles—Isle of Wight—Signal guns for pilot—Queer spe¬ 
cimen of humanity—Steaming up to Cowes,.25 

• 

CHAPTER VI. 

Cowes—Steamer for Southampton—Change of luggage and parting of pas¬ 
sengers—En route for Havre—The English Channel—Cape La Heve— 
Fleet of boatmen—Disembarking of passengers—Mr. Christie and his 
“ Swan ”—Reaching Havre—Sensations on landing—Custom-house- 
Comfortable quarters—Bishop of Montreal—First impressions of Havre 
—Visit to the Cur<$ of “ Notre Dame”—Luxury of a good bed, . 36 


CHAPTER VII. 

Church and Mass at Notre Dame—Reflections of author—Scene at custom¬ 
house—Tricks on travellers—Brief history of Rouen—Funeral proces¬ 
sion and grave-yard—How some form rash judgments—Dinner on board 
Ariel in Havre—School practice for French drummers—Difference be¬ 
tween Havre workmen and ours—The French naturally soldiers—Man¬ 
ners, customs and street scenes in Havre—Abbe Herval and the library 
—Night prayers and benediction at Notre Dame-Edifying youth at 
prayer—Morning prayer, mass, benediction, Ac., at Notre Dame-Inte¬ 
rior of church-interesting trait of filial affection-French railroad de¬ 
pots—Farewell to Havre, . . 



CONTENTS. 


XI 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Travelling companions to Rouen—Scenery and railroad—Reach Rouen— 
Brief historical notice of the city—Visit the statue of “ Joan of Arc ”— 
Reflections—Hotel de Bourgtherolde—Palais de Justice—Salle des Pro¬ 
curers—Polite concierge or guardian,.57 

CHAPTER IX. 

A market-house scene—Square before the Cathedral—Cathedral of Rouen 
—Butter tower—Interior of Cathedral—Richard Coeur de Lion—Rollo, 
Duke of Normandy—William of the Long Sword—Unknown tomb— 
Reflections on leaving the Cathedral—Archbishop’s palace—How to 
wind up a watch without breaking it—Tour de la grosse Horloge—Le¬ 
gend of the bell—Ringing the curfew—View of city from the tower— 
Church of St. Goddard—St. Patrick’s Church—A gentle hint to the 
Cure,.t. ..... 69 


CHAPTER X. 

Church of St. Romanus—Procession and legend of “ La Fierte ”—Trait in 
life of Patron Saint—L’Hotel Dieu—Church of La Madeleine—Trait of 
Father Deluol—Walk along the “Quay du Havre”—Douane or cus¬ 
tom-house—La Bourse or Exchange—House of Louis Brune—Suspen¬ 
sion bridge—Place and garrison St. Sever—Church of Emm—Loss and 
gain—Brothers of Christian schools—St. You Asylum and Church— 
Garrison of Bonnes Nouvelles—Statue of the Poet Corneille—Anecdote 
of hot soup—Novel method of sawing wood,.85 

CHAPTER XI. 

Church of St. Ouen—Important official—Trait of jealousy—Reflections on 
St. Ouen’s Church—Hotel de Ville—Museum—Library—Trait of Co- 
pernican system—The photographer—The halls and warehouses—Prot¬ 
estant church St. Eloi—Church of St. Vincent— Anecdote of the Duke 
of Argyle—Church of St. Vivian—Church of St. Nicaise—Association 
of ideas—Norman style of coaches—Hack drivers versus friendship— 
Church of St. Gervaise—Reflections on church of St. Gervaise—Sub- 




Xll 


CONTENTS. 


terranean chapel of St. Geryaise—Death of William the Conqueror 
—The old Monk—Anecdote of prosy preacher— Preparations for a 
journey,. 


CHAPTER XII. 

Leaving Rouen—En route for Paris—Travelling companions—Ludicrous 
scene—Bird’s-eye view of country—Tunnels—Poissy—Castles—Smoking 
in the cars—Arrival in Paris—Police Regulations—Examining luggage 
—Hotel J. J. Rousseau—Interview with Father Deluol—The old “ Fami¬ 
ly-Roof”—Church of St. Eustache—Cathedral of Notre Dame—High 
Mass at Notre Dame—Interior of Notre Dame, .... 115 

CHAPTER XIII. 

Sunday in Paris—Square and Church of St. Sulpice—Vespers in St. Sul- 
pice—A morning view from Pont Royal—Palais de Luxembourg—Gar¬ 
dens of the Palais de Luxembourg—Statue of Marshal Ney—Imperial 
observatory—Church of Val de Grace—Pantheon or Church of St. Ge¬ 
nevieve—Ascent to the dome—View from the dome—Visit to vaults— 
Tombs of Mirabeau—Of Voltaire—Of Rousseau—Reflections at their 
tombs—Interior and paintings of Pantheon—Anecdote of Voltaire and 
Rousseau—Church of St. Etienne du Mont, . . . 134 

CHAPTER XIV. 

University of Sorbonne—Tomb of Cardinal Richelieu—Hotel de Cluny and 

Palais des Thermes—Chamber of the White Queen—Life a Voyage_ 

Chapelle Expiatoire—Tombs of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette— 
Meditations among Tombs—Trial, Condemnation and Execution of 
Louis XVI.—Trial, Condemnation and Execution of Marie Antoinette— 
Church of La Madeleine—Danger of using Eye-glass—Place de la Con¬ 
corde—Guillotine in Paris—Charlotte Corday assassinates Marat— 
Her Trial and Execution—Trial and Execution of Philip Egalite, Duke 
of Orleans—Execution of Girondists—Execution of Madame Roland— 
Execution of Danton and Des Moulins—Horrors of French Revolu¬ 
tion, 


. 153 






CONTENTS. 


Xlll 


'CHAPTER XV. 

Horrors of the Revolution continued—General Desolation—Robespierre— 
Population diminished by thousands—Death of Robespierre—Napo¬ 
leon III.—Champs Elysees—Pet Dogs—Palais de 1’Industrie—Closing 
Scene—Choir of Five Hundred Voices—“ Vive l’Empereur,” . 174 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Hotel des Invalides—Drummer Boy—Court of the Hotel—Old Soldiers, 
wounded and infirm—Old Soldier’s account of Moscow—Burning of 
Flags—Interior of Hotel—Dormitories—Kitchen—Scene in Ward of St. 
Louis—Old Soldiers at Dinner—Anecdote of Soldier with wooden 
head—France always Catholic—Anecdote of old Soldier who wouldn’t 
go to Confession—Encouragement in France to become soldiers, 187 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Exterior of Church and Dome des Invalides—Interior of Church and Dome 
des Invalides—Lovely effect of Church and Dome des Invalides—Chapel 
of St. Jerome, the temporary tomb of Napoleon I.—Description of Cof¬ 
fin, &c.—Permanently deposited—Napoleon on St. Helena—Unjust 
treatment—Last illness and death of Napoleon—Removal of remains to 
France by Louis Philippe—Incidents of the removal—Reception by the 
King at the Invalides—Guard of old Soldiers around tomb—Old Officer’s 
account of the battle of Borodino, and the crossing of the Beresina — 
Abbe Benoit—Narrow Escape of Vaudeville, .... 209 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

Cross of Gold in Moscow—Old Soldier relates Scenes in Moscow—Tomb 
of Turenne—Chapel of St. Gregory—Tombs of Bertrand and Duroc— 
Chapel of St. Andrew—Tomb of Vauban—Crypt, or Tomb of Napoleon— 
Victims of Fieschi’s Infernal Machine—Reflections at the Tomb of Na¬ 
poleon—Meteor Career of the Emperor—His Character—Reflections on 
his Government—Napoleon’s Dream,.235 


i 


xiv 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Carden of the Tuileries—Trait of Father Mathews—Palace of Tuileries— 
Palace of Louvre—Place de Louvre—Place de la Carrousel—Triumphant 
Arch in Place de la Carrousel—Two Emperors at Tilsit—Napoleon Re¬ 
fuses to assume Headship of the Church—Wings of Louvre—Galleries 
of Louvre—Ground Floor of Louvre—Hall of Apollo Salon Carre 
Paintings and Students in Salon Carre—Artistic Wealth of Louvre * 
—Trait of Angelo—Reflections on leaving Louvre—Sound Philoso- 

.. 261 

CHAPTER XX. 

Church of St. Germain L’Auxerrois—Tradition of Bell—Massacre of St. 
Bartholomew—Cruelties on both sides—Characters of Principal Ac¬ 
tors—Political not Religious Move—Palais Royal—Garden and Walks 
of Palais Royal—Fontaine and Statue of Moliere—Island of the Seine— 
Statue of Henry IY.—Visit to La Morgue—Affecting Scene, 268 

CHAPTER XXI. 

L’Hotel Dieu—Hotel de Ville—The Infidel Paine—La Fayette—La Mar- 
tine—Church of St. Gervais—The Regicide Ravillac—Anecdote of 
Henry IY. —Church of St. Merry—Palais de Justice—Sainte Chapelle— 
Prison of Conciergerie—Madame Elizabeth—Robespierre—Les Girond- 
ins—Bastile—Colonne de Juillet—Death of Arbp. of Paris—Prison of St. 
Pelagie, 1848—Madame du Barri—Colonel Swan—Abbey Prison—Made¬ 
moiselle de Dombreuil—Mademoiselle Elizabeth Cazotte—Archbishop 
of Arles—Princess Lamballe—Her Trial and Execution—Prison of Le 
Temple—Massacres in prisons of Paris between 2 d and 6 th Septem¬ 
ber, 1792,. 286 


CHAPTER XXII. 

Place Vendome—Church of St. Roch—St. Jaque ae la Boucherie—Place 
des Victoires—Church of St. Vincent de Paul—Sisters of Charity—N. D. 
de Lorette—Abbey and Tombs of St. Denis—Cemetery of Pere la 
Chaise—Seminary and La Solitude at Issy—Farewell to Paris, . 301 



CONTENTS. 


XV 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

' 

Leaving Paris—Dijon—Notre Dame—Desecration of Churches—Public 
Museum—Philip Le Hardi—Ducal Palace ; its Museum—Drinking wine 
—Peculiar smoothness of Railroads in France—Country between Cha¬ 
lons and Dijon—Police arrangements on Railroads—French Peasantry— 
Abbe Chalons—Lyons—Early History—Early Persecutions—View from 
the hill of Fourvieres—Reign of Terror in Lyons—Strong Fortifications— 
Cathedral—La Belle Cour—Place des Terreaux—Hotel de Ville—Palais 
de Justice—Silk Factories and Looms—Avignon—Cathedral—Crillon— 
Claude Joseph Vernet—Ivory Crucifix—Trait of Bishop of Chalons awr 
Marne—Fountain of Petrarch—Danger of sleeping in Cars—Marseilles 
—Visit to Bishop—Scenes, Sights, and Sounds in Marseilles—Polite 
Soldier and Zouave—Stars .and Stripes—Churches—Notre Dame de la 
Garde—View from Heights—Climate—Preparations for departure— 
Farewell to France,.320 




























\ 









































































MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


CHAPTER I 


Preparations for sea—Leave-taking—Firing of signal guns—Under way— 
Author’s reflections and emotions on finding himself at sea—Anchored 
off Sandy Hook. 

R EADER, have you ever witnessed the prepara¬ 
tions for an “ outward bound voyage ? ” Some 
of you have, others not. You who have been present 
as voyagers to say, “ That good old word Good-bye,” 
as, all excited yet heavy hearted you viewed by 
turns the noisy hustle around you, and the loved ones 
encircling you,—you can hear testimony to the truth 
of what is here traced; and such among you as have 
not “ gone down to the sea in ships,” but may do so 
yet, will pass an ordeal exciting and mournful beyond 
expression. For two days had I watched the busy 
notes of preparation ; the noisy coal heavers pouring 
in an incessant stream of coal—the glowing furnaces 
and clattering hammers of three or four portable 
blacksmith shops, each composed of an ordinary anvil 
and bellows on wheels—the loud “ yo, heave ho! ” 

1 




2 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


of gangs hoisting in the freight—the busy carpenters 
making ready the ship for sea—the lively song ot 
riggers as they nimbly leaped from shroud to mast, 
from stay to halyard—the caulker tilling up each 
chink and seam on deck—and the clamor caused by 
the escaping steam—the loud order from mates, mas¬ 
ter workmen, stewards and under officers running 
hither and thither to have all things ready—and 
then as the bell sounds the signal for departure— 
the scampering of all not “ outward bound ”—the 
hasty farewell—the parting kiss—the tearful “ God 
bless you ” of the father embracing his child—the 
loud gush*of feeling which bespeaks the anguish of 
a mother’s soul, as she turns in tears from her heart’s 
idol—the shrill whistle of the steam-pipe—the rum¬ 
bling of the wheels as they seem to paw the water, 
impatient of restraint—the loud order, “ Let loose 
all”—the quiver which runs through every timber 
of the ship and through every living being on board 
on the first free revolutions of the engine—the ringing 
of the various signal bells for backing, rounding to, 
and for going ahead—the waving of handkerchiefs— 
the mingled sighs and farewells from congregated 
hundreds on the wharves and surrounding shipping. 
Oh, ’tis exciting !* But hark! The signal gun is 
fired! Again as we pass the old familiar Battery, the 
parting gun is heard booming over hill and dale, over 
city and water the sad farewell of aching hearts! 
Onward we speed, and onward, till each old scene is 
lost in the distance—and the eye aches little less than 
the heart, as the wanderer gazes in unbroken silence 
on the receding shore. Such were the emotions of 


UNDER WAY. 


3 


one wlio stood alone gazing in tearful silence on tlie 
passing scene. The dream of his childhood—the wish 
of maturer age, ’tis true, was about to be realized. 
A visit to Europe! A trip to Rome ! How many 
and how exciting were the feelings the bare idea sug¬ 
gested ! How long, how dreamingly had he sighed 
for this moment! Rut now there was a sense of lone¬ 
liness at his heart. And scarce had the gallant 
steamer Ariel cut loose from the slip at Hew York, 
on the 3dHov., 1855, than he would almost have given 
the world had he been able to retrace his way ! Alone 
he stood and sighed as he saw the hills and landmarks 
of his native land fading from his view ; and all alone 
he felt an exile and a wanderer, and thought of the 
loved ones at home whose prayers he felt were then 
breathed for him, but whose voices and smiles he 
might never know again! Soon the lowering clouds 
broke in rain—the wind from north-east blew a gale 
—notwithstanding the storm several remained on deck, 
most probably through motives best understood by 
those who have been at sea! About half-past three 
P. M., we anchored off Sandy Hook, as the pilot con¬ 
sidered it un§afe to proceed. One by one the party 
disappeared from deck—and of all the gay and laugh¬ 
ing group of youngsters—the more settled company of 
matrons and of sires—of loquacious Frenchmen, shrewd 
Germans, calculating Yankees, and returned Californi¬ 
ans among the passengers, one alone still lingered, un¬ 
willing to bid farewell to “ Home, sweet Home.” Late 
in the evening he too descended to the cabin. 
Dinner was served, though few partook of it. Soon 
the steamer Hermann, for Antwerp, anchored near us. 


4 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


The night set in dark and stormy, yet there was 
something so novel in the scene that it served to dis¬ 
sipate the gloom hanging around the cabin. So 
strange were the entire events of the past few days 
and hours that it was impossible to realize the truth ; 
awake or dreaming, all seemed a dream—the brain 
was confused—the fancy crowded with undefined im¬ 
ages, with memories of home, of leave taking; and 
when the motion of the steamer lazily rolling from 
side to side lulled into disturbed slumber the wearied 
frame, visions of an aged mother, an idolized brother, 
an only sister and her happy home, of friends loving 
and beloved in turn, would present themselves ; all 
in fact seemed a dream, I could not realize that I was 
a wanderer to a world unknown to me; and with a 
throbbing heart I sought repose for an overtasked 
mind and body. 


CHAPTER II. 


First Sunday at sea—Hasty toilet—Pilot leaving steamer—“ Last link bro¬ 
ken ”—Thoughts of home and friends—A deck scene—Laughable inci¬ 
dents—Paying toll to Neptune—The lively Frenchman—Clamors for 
his breakfast—Unceremonious and early call—Our cabin passengers— 
Returned Californians—Morose Frenchman—First sensations of sea¬ 
sickness—The gong. 


FTER a night of troubled sleep, I was roused about 



five in the morning of Sunday the 4th by a tremen¬ 
dous clattering on deck. Half awake I jumped from 
my berth, but found myself most unceremoniously 
stretched at fall length on the floor of my state-room, 
for a sudden lurch of the ship had given an impetus 
to my movements little understood before. I need 
not say the fall completely awakened me ; and deter¬ 
mining, as Capt. Cuttle would say, to “ take a note 
on’t,” I made as hasty a toilet as circumstances, un¬ 
necessary to explain, would allow, and hurried on 
deck. The storm had abated during the night, yet 
the wind was high. About six A. M., we hoisted an¬ 
chor, the wheels again were in motion, and we 
headed for sea. At eight o’clock A. M., the pilot 
left us, and the last link connecting us with our na- 


6 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


tive land was severed! How tearfully I watched 
his boat, as it sped towards the land, while we 
were steaming oceanward to battle with the storm 
king ! Then indeed a sense of loneliness came over 
me. It was Sunday—Sunday on the ocean! How 
different from all that had preceded it! How I 
thought of the cherished flock so lately my spiritual 
charge, at that hour perhaps gathered around the 
simple altar in the country chapel, mayhap thinking 
of and breathing a prayer for the absent pastor, father 
and friend! Around all was gloom, dread, uncer¬ 
tainty, and to me appalling. The wind soon quick¬ 
ened to a perfect gale, and was dead ahead ; the heav¬ 
ens lowered in angry clouds; the waves, though not 
indeed “ mountain high,” were truly terrific, swelling^ 
thundering, rushing on against our noble ship, which 
like a sea bird rose and sunk on the crested bosom of 
the billows ; the sailors busily occupied in clewing 
down and making sure the hatches, casks, boats, &c., 
securing all on deck for the voyage,—the wide expanse 
of water, as nothing but the heavens and the ocean 
were around us. Such was the scene and such the 
subjects of my reverie, as, half bewildered yet free 
from sea-sickness, I supported myself against the gang¬ 
way and looked on as a “stranger in Venice.” ^ 

But few of the passengers appeared on deck du¬ 
ring the day. Early even yesterday afternoon many 
were seized with sea-sickness, and this morning 
scarce half-a-dozen could leave their beds. Painful 
as was the scene, the ludicrous would possess me, 
and even while holding on with one hand to some 
support, I would strive to minister to the comforts of 


THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN. 


7 


some poor sufferer, how often did I roar with laughter 
as a treacherous lurch of the ship would take my land 
legs from under me, and a feat of tumbling not the 
most graceful would follow ! The few who ventured 
on deck soon strove to beat a quick retreat, some 
crawling on their knees and hands, others actually 
rolling about on the deck like barrels, ghastly pale, 
perfectly indifferent to time or location for paying 
their toll to Neptune—leaning on you or near you, 
perhaps just before you, and without so much as “ Ex¬ 
cuse me, sir,” or “ By your leave,” giving evidence 
that they were decidedly—sick! It seems almost irre¬ 
verent, but I cannot refrain from giving a birds-eye 
view of the cabin of the Ariel on the evening of Sun- 
day 4th. Among our passengers was a little French¬ 
man, something like the Dutchman’s heifer,— 
“ ash proad as ’twas narrow, ash little ash ’twas pig, 
and tall in brobortion, not tall up and down, but 
but tall crosswise, pefore and pehind ! ” Such was 
literally our little Frenchman, or as he was sub¬ 
sequently christened, “ The flea in a basket.” On 
tlie morning we left New York, our little “ Flea ” 
was here, there, and every where. He knew every 
body—smiled with the ladies—chatted with the gen¬ 
tlemen—aided with his broken English in giving ad¬ 
vice as to the best manner of stowing away this arti¬ 
cle of freight and that amount of coal. His face was 
all smiles and gladness as we parted cable from the 
wharf, and he seemed literally a flea in his move¬ 
ments as we steamed by the city, Castle Garden and 
surrounding hills. I had lost sight of him, however, 
early that same evening, and being sufficiently occu- 


8 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


pied with my own thoughts he had entirely es¬ 
caped my memory, until this morning amid varied 
and confused noises from all directions, easily un¬ 
derstood by any one who has been cooped up in a 
cabin at sea, I heard a half moaning, half angry 
voice between a scream and a die away groan: 
“Yatair! Yatair! You black man Yatair! Why 
you no bring me my breakfast? Here I bin sick 
and vomit now once, twice, tree time, and you no 
bring me my breakfast! ” Pretty good for him, 
thought I, he’ll do ! Whether the “ black man Ya¬ 
tair ” heeded his cry I did not stop to inquire, but 
as I was hastily dressing for deck I was surprised by 
a burly German who unceremoniously thrust himself 
half dressed into my state-room with a certain very 
peculiar painted tin cup or can like a flattened spit¬ 
toon, with two bent handles by which it is suspended 
from the berth, and which is very convenient when 
the poor passenger feels “very peculiarly squeamish.” 
As I turned from my wash bowl to see who had thus 
early made a call, there lay my poor visitor, in a most un- 
sightly horizontal position, pale as death, hair matted, 
busily occupied in trying with both hands to hold the 
above described article to his mouth; and between 
each paroxysm exclaiming or rather groaning, “ Der 
bote! Mynheer, you—de cup ! Say, you mynheer,” 
&c., &c., interlarding or interluding his hasty intro¬ 
duction by divers exploits which induced me to de¬ 
camp as hastily as possible. How long “ Mynheer ” 
kept possession I know not. Here again was a laugh¬ 
ing, rollicking German, full of life and kindness, on 
his way from California to visit the home of his child- 


RETURNED CALIFORNIANS. 


9 


hood. He was a Jew; he had struggled hard in the 
land of gold, had amassed a fortune, and was now re¬ 
turning to his parents and family.’ So affectionately 
and often did he speak of them—so happy did he seem 
in the anticipation of once again meeting the “ loved 
ones at home,” that my heart warmed towards him ex¬ 
ceedingly. If ever in his distant home his eyes rest on 
these pages, he will remember our evening confabs 
by moonlight at sea. He was as full of mischief as 
of kindness, and the laughing leer in his eye spoke 
of a fund of humor which not unfrequently betrayed 
itself. Unfortunately our little “ Flea in a basket ” was 
his room-mate; and were it appropriate to recite here 
a tithe of the tricks and “ tomblairs ” as the French¬ 
man expressed it, which our Californian played on 
him, I almost believe the very page would laugh. 
Uext comes a long, lean, lank whiskered and mou¬ 
stached biped originally from Marseilles, latterly from 
Sacramento. It seems he had failed in his specula¬ 
tion, and, soured almost to vinegar, he was returning 
wrapped in his gloomy thoughts, short cloak, and 
self-sufficiency. His time was passed during the en¬ 
tire voyage in an occasional attempt at a laugh, in 
staring at the lady passengers, and in smoking most 
execrable cigars. It must not however be supposed 
that our company was entirely composed of such 
quiddities and oddities. Among them were Mr. Lee 
with his estimable lady and family, of Baltimore,— 
Mr. L. was on his way to Switzerland, to leave his 
two sons, bright-eyed and intelligent little fellows, at 
the College of Yevay; Mr. Leon de Pomerade, an 
artist from St. Louis, whose skill in church painting 



10 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


is so universally known in the West and South, a gen¬ 
tleman of polished manners, refined sentiments, and 
ardent temperament; he too will remember the va¬ 
ried occurrences which served to relieve the monotony 
of our voyage ; Mr. Sheldon from New York, a young 
gentleman who had travelled much, and whose con¬ 
versation was exceedingly instructive—he was then on 
his way to Spain ; Monsieur Le Baume, a lawyer from 
St. Louis—a perfect specimen of a gentleman, scholar 
and social .companion. Among the most agreeable 
members of our little group, was Captain Franchwell, 
on his way to the East Indies to take charge of a ship at 
Bombay. He was a “ live Yankee,” a regular old son of 
Neptune, a jolly tar, possessing the refinements of a 
gentleman, the heart of a true American, and the af¬ 
fectionate disposition of a child. Nor must I omit 
Mr. Ducket, from Prince George’s Co., Md., whose 
graphic description of sea-sickness is as irresistibly 
droll as it is literally correct. I was under many obli¬ 
gations to Mr. Ducket during the voyage, and I may 
be excused for taking this public method of discharging 
my indebtedness. Among the lady passengers, of 
whom there were many, were Mrs. G. from Eichjnond, 
who was on her way to Paris to join her daughter 
Miss B., and who had under her charge two young 
ladies, the Misses S., also from Virginia. As a fitting 
close to this partial sketch of the little family grouped 
within the cabin for fifteen anxious days, I will men¬ 
tion Mrs. W., an invalid all the way, who was going 
to Park to meet her husband, just returned after an 
absence of five years as secretary to the American 
Legation at St. Petersburg. She had left her little 


LIFE ON BOARD. 


11 


boy and girl at school in Connecticut, and now with 
a throbbing heart she seemed to chide the wind and 
waves which bore her too slowly to her husband. 
They met at Ham ; they journeyed to Paris, where I 
saw them again; they soon repaired to Liverpool; 
and one day on my return from Italy, whilst reading 
the list of passengers in the ill-fated Pacific, my eyes 
rested on their names ! A sigh involuntarily escaped 
me, as I thought of the uncertainty of life ! She bad 
journeyed far to meet her husband and to die with 
him! But the little ones at home—the younglings 
of the nest—they shall wait for their coming, but 
the parent birds will come no more for ever ! God 
protect the orphan! 

Such is a peep into our cabin, Sunday, Nov. 4th. 
In all we were nearly a hundred cabin-passengers, 
and many more in the second class cabin. The en¬ 
tire ship was a world in miniature; nearly every 
tongue in Europe was spoken. And wild Arab 
dresses, with the guttural sounds used by their wear¬ 
ers, added to the novelty of the scene. From the 
outset all, with but few exceptions, seemed to form a 
community of feeling; and, apart from the hinderan- 
ces arising from sickness, it was as a family through¬ 
out the voyage. 

After acting as waiter and doctor until near four 
o’clock P. M., the indescribable feeling of sea-sick¬ 
ness came over me. For a while I struggled against 
them, remaining on deck until cramps, as I thought, 
nearly broke me apart—then staggering to my state¬ 
room, after several ineffectual attempts, tumbled more 
dead than alive into my berth, and for about three 


12 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


hours endured all the agonies of that loathsome sick¬ 
ness. The ship rolled fearfully, and yet that hateful 
gong went booming through cabin and dining saloon, 
calling us to table as if in very mockery of our suf¬ 
ferings. So closed the first day, so commenced this 
my first night on the Atlantic. 


CHAPTER III. 


Monotony of first days at sea—Disappointed in dinner—Shaving at sea— 
Early morning on the ocean—Passengers venture on deck—Our little 
Frenchman—His want of “ ze aptite ! ”—Manages without it—The 
“ live Yankee ”—Sudden rain storm. 

M ONDAY, 5th. —This has been a blank day indeed. 

Early this morning I strove to crawl on deck, 
although scarce able to stand. It has rained nearly 
all day—as usual at this season the wind blowing a 
stiff easterly breeze ahead. Few have ventured on 
deck to-day; indeed few are able to leave their 
berths. I passed most of the time wrapped in my 
cloak, looking listlessly at the angry ocean, and striv¬ 
ing to balance myself as best 1 might, as the ship 
seemed to roll first one wheel-house, then the other 
under water! How I got back to my berth I scarce 
remember ; but I was wretchedly cold and wet. 

Tuesday , Qth. —Last night the little Ariel pitched 
and tossed like a cork on the ocean. It blowed a 
gale nearly the entire night. And this morning the 
wind continues with additional fury. Scarce a soul 
on deck save the officers and hands—gradually one 
stole up—then another—long beards—slouched hats 
—rather soiled shirt collars and bosoms—little human 



14 


MY TEIP TO FRANCE. 


respect at sea. To-day I enjoyed a good bowl of soup 
on deck, or rather was on the point of enjoying it, 
when, presto ! over went bowl, soup, and myself, 
most of the “ combustibles ” lodging in the lap of my 
good friend Ducket! Early in the afternoon retired, 
completely exhausted; yet, while I had evident and 
sufficient proof that nearly every one around me was 
suffering so intensely, I congratulated myself that I 
was so free from sickness. Such were my thoughts 
when I dozed off, rocked to sleep by the ocean wave. 

Wednesday , 7 th .—During the night the wind sub¬ 
sided, and the morning dawned brilliantly on the 
waters. I was awaked by Capt. Franchwell, who 
kindly urged me to go on deck and witness the scene. 
This morning, the first time for five days, I shaved— 
a valorous deed, though little needed. Deader, have 
you any idea of shaving at sea ? It is not the agree¬ 
able luxury some of you are accustomed to indulge 
in when in conscious security you loll back in a cush¬ 
ioned chair, and suffer the man of tonsorial science to 
lather the face and pull the nose in true artistic style; 
vastly different at sea. When the poor trembling 
criminal, ’stead of the cushioned chair, seats himself 
on the soft side of the state-room floor, leans against 
the partition, supports one leg against the trunk, 
the other mayhap against a treacherous carpet¬ 
bag, which he fears will roll away at every pitch 
of the ship; then how he gazes on the soap and 
water and brush, which he manages to hold between 
his knees or in one hand, while he lathers with the 
other both eyes and cheeks, forehead and nose, as he 
rocks backward and forward with the motion of the 


LITTLE MISERIES. 


15 


ship! how carefully he applies the razor—as apt 
ofttimes to chip the skin off his nose or cheek as the 
beard! Woe to the unfortune wight if, pending the 
tonsorial operation, he feels sick ; in that case I scarce 
know what he’d do, as, in addition to himself, his 
shaving implements would pirouette in no measured 
time around the floor! Ludicrous as may appear the 
scene, I assure you, kind reader, it is a serious under¬ 
taking for a novice at sea to shave himself, and, I 
must think little less so to be shaved by the barber. 
This morning I attempted it, and after a deal of la¬ 
bor escaped with but few marks to show what the 
razor had done! Hastening on deck, I found the sun 
an hour high, gilding the ocean in a blaze of glory. 
The air was balmy as a spring morning—the ocean 
as calm and placid as a lake. Onward sped our 
gallant little bark, as if proud of the struggle out of 
which she had just emerged unscathed. One after 
another the greater portion of the passengers came 
on deck, like frogs after a rain. Then there was 
greeting as of friends long separated—inquiries after 
health—congratulations on the weather—on the pro¬ 
gress we were making—comparing of notes by such 
as had energy enough to keep any—a loud, hearty 
laugh as Mr. Ducket gave his experience of sea-sick¬ 
ness—a quaint, original production worthy the pen 
of a Dickens or of an Irving. There was a jovial 
gathering of the young folks, all as if suddenly re¬ 
stored to health and spirits—some dancing, others 
promenading, or singing; all enjoying themselves on 
“the calm waters of the deep, blue sea.” And our 
little Frenchman, “ Mons. Flea in a basket*” where 


16 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


has he been since he was so “ver sick once, twice, 
tree time ? ” He has been on hand. "While I have 
missed but one meal, he has been more fortunate in 
not only missing none, but in getting ordinarily even 
thus far, four luncheons per day ! Y esterday whilst 
at the dinner table he was relating the sad story of 
his sufferings in no very ambiguous terms ; and 
even though complaining of “no hav ze aptite,” 
he contrived to stow away at least four times as 
much as any one at the table! It is surprising 
how much some folks can eat without “ze aptite!” 
The last I saw of our hero yesterday was about four 
P. M., with head enveloped in a pyramid of red flan¬ 
nel nightcap, a towel adorning his neck for a cravat, 
and he in his dressing gown, sideling along like a 
crab from chair to sofa, and from one side of the 
cabin to the other; now groaning piteously, and again 
looking most imploringly as, with both hands filled 
with apples, and with a small tureen of soup, he 
was striving to wend his way from the lunch room to 
his berth, for all the world like our country militia 
forming a straight line up against a crooked fence, or 
standing at ease sitting on the curb-stone! I looked 
after him, and literally laughed myself sick as he 
finally succeeded in gaining his state-room door, and 
entered it amid his “ Yatair ! you black man Yatair, 
O me ! so sick! ” To-day a wild burst of laughter 
announced his arrival on deck—the picture of a woe¬ 
begone, despairing being! Soon followed the burly 
German, and he of the “short cloak” equally the 
worse for the wear and tear of the past few days; 
and a queer specimen of the genus Yankee, whose 


MONOTONY. 


17 


legs were several inches too long for his pants, and 
arms stretched half a yard or less beyond his coat 
sleeves—he, poor fellow, had thus far been able to do 
nothing but roll on the cabin floor, and bleat like a 
sheep ? Up, however, he came to-day, and what 
with all this, and the balmy weather, the smopth 
sea, our invigorated systems, the progress we were 
making, and the noisy clatter of the ladies’ tongues, 
hours passed swiftly by, and we forgot the sufferings of 
the past few days. But alas ! how fleeting and uncer¬ 
tain is good weather at sea! Without any warning 
the rain burst upon us, and in a twinkling all had 
scudded below save three! Our little Frenchman 
looking towards the gangway, aimed for it in a zig- 
zag motion, exclaiming, “ Ah, zat make me ver 
sick! ” The scene was irresistibly ludicrous, and 
by the time we had recovered from our laughing, 
nearly all were on deck again. To-day at noon Capt. 
Lefevre took an observation. We stood 41° 37’ north, 
longitude 63° west. We were 500 miles from Uew 
York. So passed the day and evening, interspersed 
with little episodes, mere trifles in themselves, but 
serving to relieve the dull monotony of the time. 


CHAPTER IY. 


Sunrise at sea—011a podrida conversation—Our Yankee beats a retreat— 
Consternation and fright at the sudden stopping of machinery—Laugh¬ 
able incidents—Cause of the stopping—Frenchman mixing soda water 
—Ship in sight—Reflections—Sunset at sea—Home sickness—Midnight 
at sea—Engine again stopped—Another sail in sight—Mrs. G. and the 
Know-Nothings. 


HURSDAY 8th. Tills is the sixth day since we 



JL left land. The morning is cool and bracing. 
Sun-rise at sea! Grand and inspiring—the god of 
day seems urging on his fiery steeds as his car ap¬ 
proaches the horizon. The ocean and the skies at 
first are tinged with brilliant hues, until a flood of 
molten gold seems poured out upon the waters as old 
Sol mounts higher and higher in his proud career. 
The sea was calm and unruffled, the ship was steam¬ 
ing nobly on, and many of the passengers even at 
that early hour had come on deck. The morning sun 
was comfortable ; the eye rested on as lovely a scene 
as ever mortal gazed upon ; clouds tinged with rich 
effulgence were scattered here and there above us, 
like some bright beings attendant on the morning sun, 
or keeping sweet watch over our little bark; the 
heavens above us, the wide world of waters beneath 
and around us, seemed exulting in conscious beauty; 


MY FELLOW-PASSENGERS. 


19 


and as I stood leaning against the windlass, the scene 
was so like a fairy palace, that I gazed in mute aston¬ 
ishment, until the old gong awoke me from my dreamy 
reverie to the necessity of something more substantial. 
During the forenoon nearly every one was on deck, each 
adding in his own peculiar way to render this perhaps 
the most cheerful day of the voyage. In our little world 
we talked of every thing, and many things besides ! 
Politics, religion, history, the arts and sciences—in fact, 
“ do omnibus aliquid , et de toto nihil /” I was deeply 
interested in the very profound remarks between 
our Yankee friend—him of legs too long or pants 
too short—our young Frenchman, and the disap¬ 
pointed gold-seeker who smoked bad cigars. Their 
subject was the relative positions of the working 
classes in France and America. Truly it was a rich 
treat, and the group of listening passengers enjoyed 
the feast. Neither understood the other, and yes and 
no somehow always came in the wrong place ! The 
ladies were among the most interested; and judging 
from long experience that all this would end in some¬ 
thing more than laughing, I sat by an idle spectator. 
Sure enough, something was said by our Yankee neigh¬ 
bor which roused the southern blood of Mrs. G., who 
is a thoroughgoing Catholic. Shrewd as he was, he 
could not stand before the fire, and he wriggled and 
squeamed as none but a genuine Yankee can. I really 
pitied the poor fellow! yet it was so genteelly done— 
so good-humoredly taken, that all enjoyed it. During 
the conversation I was busily occupied studying the 
countenances of the crowd. What a variety of ex¬ 
pression ! Gradually the conversation flagged ; some 


of the younger joined in an impromptu, cotillion ; 
others lolled listlessly, or slept on the settees and 
benches ; while others again, going to the fore part of 
the ship, where all was life and jollity, whiffed away at 
their cigars. All was apparently safe, when, had a 
thunderbolt struck the ship, more consternation would 
not have been caused than in an instant ran through 
the group of dancers, of sleepers, smokers, and read¬ 
ers! For myself I thought we were foundering at 
sea! The engine ceased, the wheels were motionless, 
the steam rushed with a deafening noise through the 
scape-pipes, and the ship literally groaned, as being in 
the trough of the sea, and having no counterbalancing 
motion to steady her, she rolled and pitched and 
tossed as if. each movement were for life and death. 
Truly it was a moment of terror, that first sudden 
stopping of the machinery! Wild consternation was 
on each countenance, fear was in each eye, and I 
held my breath uncertain whether the next instant 
I might not hear an explosion. At such a time a 
moment seems an age, and no one ventured beyond 
an involuntary “ What’s that % ” Standing by the 
cabin door, I was partaking pretty largely of the 
general alarm, when whack, full tilt against me, came 
rushing up our little Frenchman, with eyes starting 
from their sockets and face ghastly pale, exclaiming, 
“ Ah, Mons. Le Cure, “ Yat it is, vat it is ? ” “ The 

biler’s busted, and we’re going to Davy’s locker,” 
coolly responded our facetious Yankee, who was stand¬ 
ing near. The cause of all this alarm was explained 
in less time than it has taken me to relate it. The 
engineer had only stopped the machinery to make 


THE HOME-BOUND SHIP. 


21 


some slight repairs, deemed necessary. We were de¬ 
layed about an hour. Now that all is over, and we 
are here on terra firma, we may afford to laugh at the 
whole affair ; but, believe me, kind reader, it was no 
laughing matter at the moment. There was something 
frightful to hear at this immense distance from land 
the harsh screaming of the escaping steam—to feel 
the rolling of the ship, as if at each turn she’d cap¬ 
size, and then, with an involuntary shudder, to look 
out upon the world of water encompassing you; for, 
as Barney O’Reirdon says, “ although the ocean is a 
pretty enough thing to look at and admire, it’s no great 
things when you’re pitched into it! ” 

Our indefatigable friend, the Frenchman, was very 
gracious, especially to the ladies, during the afternoon. 
Leaning against the mast, he essayed, after repeated 
requests, to mix some soda water for the ladies. How 
he succeeded—of his mishaps—repeated failures to 
empty the blue or the white paper into the tumbler, 
instead of on the deck, it is not necessary to speak. 
Ludicrous truly was the scene, and right merrily did 
we enjoy it! 

To-day about four P. M., we passed a homeward- 
bound ship, sails all set, and riding gracefully as a 
swan on the undulating waves, the first sign of life 
beyond our own craft, since leaving New York. Sad 
feelings came over me, as I stood gazing at her fast 
receding from view, and thought of the fond hearts 
awaiting her return. ILow many would be gladdened 
when she was telegraphed ; and what a thrill of joy 
would fill the bosoms of expecting parents, friends, 
and loved ones at the wanderer’s return ! Go, noble 


22 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


ship, sighed I ; go—where I would even now gladly 
go! About five, we saw quite a phenomenon, a double 
rainbow, clear and distinct. Thus passed the day, the 
wind freshening—all sails set—advancing gloriously. 
Sunset at sea ! Gorgeous, indeed, is the scene. The 
ocean seemed like liquid gold, gracefully undulating, 
yet as smooth as a lake ; clouds piled in fantastic shapes 
like old ruined castles, or mountains piled on moun¬ 
tains with every grotesque form imaginable or unima¬ 
ginable. We watched the last lingering rays as they 
sparkled on the briny deep, and stood admiring the 
bright hues reflected on skies and water, long after 
the sun’s golden chariot had disappeared beneath the 
western horizon. A feeling far more melancholy, 
though not so violent, perhaps, as that of sea-sickness, 
came over me as I stood musing in silence, watch¬ 
ing the sun’s parting rays. Shall I own it? Well, 
I was home sick! Reader, smile not at my weak¬ 
ness, nor chide the tears which fell. Blessings on 
the man who invented this safety-valve to the over¬ 
charged heart, nor took out letters patent for it! 
There is nothing so calculated to soothe one’s aching 
heart, save the holy influence of religion, as a good, 
hearty cry. Is it not so ? Some may smile, and others 
ridicule my mawkish sentimentality; yet, I believe, 
that although “ all are not men who wear the hu¬ 
man form,” when a man lias a heart it does it good 
now and then to remove its superfluous weight, even 
though it be by tears. Some may be able to command 
their feelings, and drive back to their hidden source 
these proofs of childish weakness. It is not my boast, 
and weakness though it be, I plead guilty to the soft 


MIDNIGHT AT SEA. 


23 


impeachment. Night closed in; at a late hour I 
retired. 

Friday, 9 th. About midnight I rose and went on 
deck. Midnight at sea! Awful, grand and fearful! 
I was startled from a troubled sleep by the sudden 
stopping again of the machinery, and the loud, shrill 
noise of the escaping steam. Fortunately but few of 
the passengers were awakened : hence, there was but 
little consternation. We were going at rapid speed 
when the engine was stopped for repairs; fair wind, 
and plenty of it; all sail set, and a bright moonlight. 
As soon as the wheels ceased their motion, the ship 
seemed at the mercy of the waves, which, angry at her 
mastery over them, seemed to beat and lash against 
her bow in spiteful revenge. The poor little Ariel 
rocked from side to side like a skiff on the ocean, only 
more lazily and fearfully. What, thought I, had this 
occurred during a storm! ITow long we were thus 
at the mercy of the wind, I know not, but the bulle¬ 
tin at the captain’s office next day, informed us we had 
lost 75 miles. I retired again about three A. M., and 
was soon journeying in dream-land. The day dawned 
balmy and cloudy. The frisking porpoises sported in 
myriads around the ship, and they gladdened me, for 
they at least seemed happy! A brig soon hove in 
view, but we did not pass nigh enough to hail her. 
At noon to-day our observation stood: 42° 36 4 N. 58° 
W. We were 730 miles from New York—a long 
waste of waters still between us and Havre! The 
day passed off agreeably ; Mrs. G. of Richmond giv¬ 
ing in no measured terms very particular “ Jessie ” to 


24 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


tlie Know-Nothings; some vindicating their canse— 
some reading, smoking, etc. I was particularly inter¬ 
ested in the conversation of Mr. Sheldon, from whom, 
as he had been in Home, I learned much which sub¬ 
sequent experience proved useful. 


CHAPTER Y. 


Dinner table scene at sea—Good appetite not easily satisfied at sea— 
Another Sunday on the ocean—Thoughts and recollections of home— 
Deacon Snowball’s description of the weather—Visit to the “ fire room” 
in hold—Deadening effects of sea-sickness—A storm at sea—Sail in sight 
—Old sailor’s fish story—Land bird and land breeze—Writing home 
via Southampton—“ The event of the voyage ”—Land ho!—Revolving 
light—The Needles—Isle of Wight—Signal guns for pilot—Queer spe¬ 
cimen of humanity—Steaming up to Cowes. 

S ATURDAY, 10th. — Day exceedingly disagreea¬ 
ble. What a day this must be on Broadway, or 
on the Avenue in Washington ! Wind a perfect hur¬ 
ricane. For want of dust, old Boreas scattered about 
the waves, as they dashed against the sides of the ship 
and fell in spray over us. We were rolling from side 
to side all day. Hone seemed to suffer more than our 
little Frenchman, who seemed more loquacious than 
ever, though still and always “ so sick, so ver sick ! ” 
At dinner to-day the scene was amusing, though vex¬ 
atious. Dishes, decanters, glasses—in fact, every 
thing movable, seemed bent on a spree; over went 
this plate into your lap—off rolled the wine-bottles, 
chased by tumblers and wine-glasses—the very poul¬ 
try, though w dead and cooked,” seemed lively again; 
for they would not observe propriety and stay upon 
their dishes!—-soup seemed as plenty on the table- 
2 


26 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


cloth as in the tnreen—“Slowly, slowly—hold on 
there, my friend just opposite; where are you going 
with your chair ? ” Strange what makes so many run 
or stagger off as quickly as they can from the table ! 

* They look so sick ! “Steady, neighbor, steady, just 
\ try to keep your plate before yourself as much as you 
can.”—“Waiter, stop that potato rolling there—take 
away this plate ; it’s full of what I don’t want! ”— 
“ Excuse me, sir, I didn’t intend to butt against you ; 
Yut indeed it is very rough, isn’t it?”—“Steward, 
catch that turkey, if you please, and bring it back 
here! ”—“ Bless me, how very sick I am ! Oh! oh! ” 
and off he goes. Such is a glimpse of dinner-table 
scenes in a steamer on a rough day at sea. As for 
the burly German, he had no sooner seated himself 
- than he decamped, with evident symptoms of “ deep 
' calling unto deep ”—an unsettled state of feeling, 
very ! Our Yankee controversialist hadn’t courage 
to venture to the table, but waggishly begged each 
one who returned from the dining-saloon to bring him 
“ some o’ them ’ere fixins,” while even a wheelbarrow 
would run off with laughter at the plight of the 
Frenchman! There he sat, legs braced against the 
table, holding on now with one hand, and again with 
both—napkin tucked in his collar—desperately, when¬ 
ever he could loosen one hand, grasping at this dish and 
that, which, as he could not manage it single-handed, 
and we who were close to him would not, merely to 
enjoy the joke, he was fain to empty bodily into his 
plate or plates, which, sometimes playing truant, 
would wickedly slide away, freighted with turkey, 
beef, mutton, soup, potatoes, tomatoes, pickles, salad, 


SUNDAY ON THE OCEAN. 


27 


chicken, and divers other “ fixins,” or go, whack ! into 
his lap or on the floor, bringing from him a piteous 
groan and peremptory demand for “ stop ze eengine.” 
Fruitless, however, were all his expostulations and 
threats to “ make one bad complaint to ze proprietaire 
ven I make sure my foot on ze land,” because the 
ocean and the winds kicked up such a fuss, and would 
hinder him from finishing “ his eat.” How he suc¬ 
ceeded, I know not; for I had laughed so heartily 
that I found myself getting sick, and groped my way 
from chair to chair to the stairs. I turned to catch 
another glance at my poor little neighbor as I as¬ 
cended, but he had risen, holding in one hand a plate 
hugely piled with divers “ combustibles,” and with 
the other holding on to the table. I saw no more of 
him that day. 

Sunday , 11th .—Another Sunday on the ocean! 
How monotonous to be caged and cabined so long on 
the ocean! And yet the week has passed rapidly 
away, each day marked by its peculiar novelty. Here 
I am, Sunday morning, to offer adoration, not before 
the familiar altar in a far off home, with kneeling 
worshippers around me ; the master and the slave, 
the rich and poor within the country chapel, where 
sweet voices, mingling with the organ’s notes, speak 
of pure and holy devotion ; but on the deep, under 
the vaulted arch of heaven, on the altar of the heart, 
the loud winds chanting the hymn of praise with the 
low solemn thundering of the billows, as sea and skies 
proclaim that “ God is wonderful on the deep ! ” How 
memory recalls each old familiar sound and scene ; 
the church bell from its little steeple peering above 


28 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


the trees—the cheerful greetings of friends, as from 
far and wide they meet on Sunday morning—the 
smiling faces—“best Sunday dresses’’—then old “ Un¬ 
cle Bob,” and “ Aunt Sukey,” and all the little 
Bobs and Sukeys, with their woolly heads, bright eyes, 
and ivory teeth, grinning for very joy u kase dis be 
Sunday! ” Oh ! Heaven always bless those scenes, 
and days, and friends! 

The day opened with a fair wind, blowing quite 
a gale. The operation of shaving was rather more 
unsuccessful than before ; for, besides divers bumps 
and thumps while striving to wash, I came off minus 
a portion of my chin ! After breakfast we saw a half- 
dismasted bark; but, as she made no signal of dis¬ 
tress, the ship continued on. Some of our passengers 
were evidently impressed with a sense of religious 
duty to-day, and they seemed absorbed, each in his 
own thoughts and devotions. During the afternoon 
we passed the ship Charlemagne, of Havre, bound for 
Hew York. The evening set in dark and stormy. 
Nearly every passenger is sick. The ship, riding in 
the trough of the sea or between the waves, pitches 
and rolls fearfully. The lively conversation and merry 
laugh of our youthful passengers have gradually 
ceased; and groaning, and other proofs that they are 
“ so ver sick,” are heard on all sides. ¥e are steam¬ 
ing ahead at a rapid rate; the night is as dark as 
darkness visible—cheerless, cold, drizzling sleet and 
snow—in truth, enough to give a man the blues! 
After some half-dozen ineffectual attempts to reach 
my state-room, I brought up against the door with a 
sudden lurch which made my head swim. Becoiri- 


DEEP, DARK RECESSES. 


29 


mending myself to Heaven, and to Her, so sweetly 
called the “ Star of the sea,” I slept. 

Monday , 12th. —Stormy, rainy, and windy. In¬ 
deed Deacon Snowball’s description of the weather 
will suit to-day—“ Fust it blew—then it snew—then 
it friz, horrid!” We passed, before breakfast, an¬ 
other homeward bound brig. The tables, chairs, and 
every thing not tightly fastened to the floor, were 
seized with a dancing furor, and they all started off, 
as if by previous consent, pirouetting and tumbling 
around the cabin. Although not a believer in table- 
rapping through spiritual agency, I was soon con¬ 
vinced of its truth through the medium of a rough 
sea. To-day, through the politeness of the first engi¬ 
neer, an officer in all respects suited to his position, I 
visited the fire-room in the “ deep dark recesses ” of 
the hold. Koaring fires—besmutted and besmeared 
firemen, shovelling in coal almost incessantly—long 
iron rakers, with which they poked and stirred up 
the fire until the whole concern seemed a living, glow¬ 
ing furnace—the rail-road and cars with which from 
the “ coal-bunks ” the devouring maw of the monster 
was fed with its black food—the pale glimmering of 
the lamps, hung here and there within that deep 
abyss—the close, oppressive atmosphere, the thun¬ 
dering clamor of the machinery, the roar of the fires, 
the bubbling of the steam, and the rushing noise of 
the water as we dashed onward through the ocean, all 
filled me with wonder and with awe. In fact, it 
■would not be difficult to imagine oneself in Pluto’s 
realms ; and I was forcibly reminded of Aeneas’s de¬ 
scent “ad inferos.” Ashamed to acknowledge my 


30 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


fear, 1 strove to appear calm, and, after a half hour’s 
suspense, I was truly rejoiced when once again I 
sought the world above, and trod—no, not terra firma, 
but the deck of .our rolling ship ! But few of our 
passengers have made their appearance to-day. How 
this sea-sickness deadens every sense of affection, 
every thought save for self! Whether one goes to 
the bottom or goes ahead, ’tis all one ; we heed not, 
we care not, even for the nearest and dearest ties. In 
fact, ’tis a merciful dispensation; for were w r e alive 
to even the ordinary feelings of sympathy, how doubly 
agonizing would be our sufferings, to witness those of 
a parent, child, or friend, and to be unable to afford 
relief! To add to the gloomy prospect, a violent hail¬ 
storm broke over us ; and as the falling stones rattled 
against the skylight, it seemed the thick glass would 
break. The ocean lashed into an angry storm, thun¬ 
der grumbling in the heavens, lightning flashing fear¬ 
fully, our little ship literally quivering beneath the 
force of the shock, as wave on wave would dash 
against her with the accumulated fury of a thousand 
Niagaras, a lowering sky hissing, foam-capped bil¬ 
lows, which seemed so spiteful as now we rose on 
them, and again sank deep and deep in the abyss of 
waters, until the masts were literally overtopped by 
the sporting demon riding on the waves ; the long 
fiery trail following in our rear, belched by the smoke¬ 
stacks from their laboring lungs ; the darkness, gloom 
—all, all increased the terrors of the scene, and it was 
—sublime ! 

Tuesday , \Ztli .—Towards morning the storm 
abated. We have made good headway. The morn- 


THE ENGLISH COAST. 


31 


ing is cold, clear, and bracing. After a troubled 
niglit, during which it was difficult to keep myself 
from being thrown out of my berth, I ascended to the 
deck. The sea was comparatively calm. Enjoyed 
breakfast, though enlivened, as usual, by the little 
Frenchman’s eccentricities. His sufferings, poor man, 
would fill a volume, albeit he is blessed amid them 
all with one “ steadfast ” friend, “ ze aptite! ” The 
day was alternately warm and cold, sunshine and 
snow, wind and rain, until about sunset all the horrors 
of last evening’s storm seem renewed with increased 
fury. My very soul sank within me, and I sought 
my state-room, in half dread and half-confiding hope, 
though I felt we were as safe on the ocean as on land, 
when God protects us ! Hone save those who have 
suffered thus, alternating between hope and fear, 
courage and despondency, even though faith point us 
to Him who “ rides on the whirlwind and directs the 
storm,” none can realize the terrors of such a position. 
Kind sleep came to my relief, and I dreamed I was at 
home ! 

Wednesday , \Uli— Cold, cheerless and stormy; 
slow progress, hail, rain, snow. About noon came up 
to and passed within speaking distance barque “ Sten- 
tor ” of Pictou, H. S. The dullest, gloomiest day yet. 
Retired at 7. 

Thursday , 1 5th .—Early this morning I went on 
deck. Who could believe that yesterday was a stormy 
day; for this morning is warm, clear, and balmy. 
How refreshing to snuff the land breeze! It came 
from old England, bearing on its wings comfort, and 
hope, and joy! A few days more and we shall tread 


32 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


her shores. Blissful thought, that our captivity 
is drawing to a close. Nearly all our passengers 
came up during the forenoon. I was amused at the 
stories of an old sailor, who was describing to a lis¬ 
tening group, myself among them, the name and won¬ 
derful qualities of a queer-looking fish which had 
been caught and thrown on deck by one of the wheels 
during the night; I think he called it a “ Squid.” A 
most unsightly “ varmint,” with numerous feelers or 
boneless arms a yard or so in length, an entirely mu¬ 
cilaginous compound of ugliness and flabbiness, still, 
in its way, telling the wonders of the deep. The old 
sailor seemed impressed with the importance of his 
position, for attending with great zeal to his tobacco, 
and holding up the “ sea monster ” to our view, be 
assured us he had seen the identical mother of “ this 
yere squid,” and she “ was so big that she e’en’amost 
capsized the brig Joe Cutter,—a wdiale warn’t a cir¬ 
cumstance to her! He know’d this squid by a mark 
on the back ! ” Pretty good for a fish story, thought I— 
tell that to the marines ! By observation to day at noon 
we stood 50° 05' N. Lat. 19° 30' Long., only 730 miles 
to Southampton! As usual the evening set in stormy, 
cold and dark. 

Friday , 16^A.—On reaching deck this morning I 
saw a little land bird fluttering over the bow of the 
ship; I could have caressed the little messenger, for 
like myself he was a wanderer from home! The 
morning was cloudy, wind ahead, and the day passed 
over cold and cheerless. This evening I wrote letters 
home, to be sent by way of Southampton. 

Saturday , 17th .—Wind ahead. As we approach 


ANOTHER SUNDAY. 


33 


the English Channel we meet many vessels. It is 
strange that as we near land, my feelings are tinged 
with melancholy ! A stranger in a strange country, 
and homesick at that! I occupied a good portion 
of the forenoon in writing to America ; how strange 
that sounded, writing to America. I could scarce 
realize that thousands of miles, a world of waters, 
rolled between my home and me! To day the purser 
called on us for our passage tickets. It smacked of 
drawing nigh the end of our voyage. We lingered 
late on deck, anxiously hoping ’mid the fog and cold 
to make the light on the Stilly Isles. Word was 
passed that it was seen, but disappointment was our 
doom, it proved the watch light from the mast-head 
of some vessel. It was nigh midnight when I retired. 

Sunday , 18^A.—Another Sunday at sea! The 
morning is cold and dreary. This English Channel is 
as rough as the ocean. We enjoyed breakfast how¬ 
ever, amazingly, for as the time of separation draws 
nigh we begin to appreciate each other’s society 
more. For a wonder, our little Frenchman grew 
quite indignant at some waggish remarks made at his 
expense, and, reader, will you believe it, actually rose 
from his breakfast! It was the greatest occurrence, 
in fact “ the event ” of the voyage. We looked in per¬ 
fect astonishment at each other, wondering what screw 
was loose ! All is anxiety now, for the captain is 
looking out for a pilot. There was comfort even in 
the sound, and even now I can recall the smile with 
which we repeated each to another, the pilot! It was 
exquisitely refreshing to inhale again the breeze fresh 
from land. The day passed, evening drew on apace, 
2 * 


34 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


rainy, chilly and gloomy. “ Land ho ! ” rang through 
the ship, and in a twinkling almost every passenger was 
on deck despite of rain, and wind, and cold. It was 
the Scilly Isles. By nine P. M., we made the revolving 
light on Lizzard Point off Land’s-End ; fitting senti¬ 
nel on that rock-bound coast, warning off the ap¬ 
proaching mariner in mute but expressive accents. 
For three successive days we had had no observation, 
and “ dead reckoning ” had been the only means by 
which through storms and winds we had made with 
such surprising accuracy this point. We are ap¬ 
proaching that dangerous point, “ The Needles ; ” 
high and precipitous rocks, guarding the entrance to 
the Isle of Wight as giants since the flood. The Cap¬ 
tain judiciously stopped the ship—signal guns w T ere 
fired, rockets were sent up, blue-lights burned to at¬ 
tract the pilots, of whom there seemed a singular 
dearth. It was a trying hour to Captain Lefevre and 
his officers, for the wind was blowing a gale, and the 
thick heavy atmosphere gave but little scope for vi¬ 
sion. An hour and a half thus passed slowly by, 
surely not the least anxious of the voyage. At length 
a pilot bore down towards us,—a queer specimen of 
aquatic curiosity, a real Dartmouth man, more like 
a walking hogshead than a human being, yet he was 
an angel to us, he was just from land ! With an eye 
to the main chance he entered at once into arrange¬ 
ments with our Captain at an exorbitant rate, as he 
was not one of the regular government pilots. Up 
steam again, off moves the ship. It was not quite 
daylight when we passed through The Needles. Per¬ 
haps the gloom added to the illusion, but it seemed 


THE ISLE OF WIGHT. 


35 


to me I could have thrown a stone on the rocks, so 
fearfully close did we approach them ! It is an ex¬ 
citing thing to approach these frowning rocks. The 
chalky cliffs, the “ Hearse Castle,” as it is called, fa¬ 
mous as the prison of Charles I., and perhaps of Mary 
Queen of Scotts, the splendid cottages and residences 
of wealthy gentlemen, who make the Isle of Wight 
their summer resort, the lights glimmering on the high 
rocks, the classic and historic associations connected 
with this lovely spot, which seems as a perfect gem 
in old England’s crown. All is interesting. Here 
under Yespasian and the Emperor Claudius, the Ro¬ 
mans founded cities, less than a quarter of a century 
after the death of our Saviour. These green fields 
have been stained in blood by the ruthless Saxons. 
Druid Priests offered their human sacrifices from per¬ 
haps the very rock in yonder grove, and fire and 
sword and vandal hordes have swept over these fields, 
each in turn destroying in the name of religion or am¬ 
bition, the fairest flowers of virtue and of science. 
How pleasing it was, and yet how sad, to dwell on 
these reflections, the more so as the eye seemed to 
luxuriate in gazing once again on land ! 


CHAPTER YI. 


Cowes—Steamer for Southampton—Change of luggage and parting of pas¬ 
sengers—En route for Havre—The English Channel—Cape La Heve— 
Fleet of boatmen—Disembarking of passengers—Mr. Christie and his 
“ Swan ’’—Reaching Havre—Sensations on landing—Custom-house— 
Comfortable quarters—Bishop of Montreal—First impressions of Havre 
—Yisit to the Cure of “ Notre Dame”—Luxury of a good bed. 


E anchored off Cowes, a romantic little town on 



* * the Isle of Wight. It is much larger than I had 
anticipated. Then came a regular rush of pilots. 
All this seemed to me, an American, rather shiftless 
and ill managed. Where were they when we most 
needed them ? How many and anxious were the in¬ 
quiries about the news from the Crimea ! But here 
comes puffing and spluttering at a dreadful rate, the 
little steam-tug to convey passengers and baggage to 
Southampton, pleasantly situated about an hour’s sail 
on the north-east point of a bay called Southampton 
Water. She makes more noise, and is more fussy 
than a regular steamer. One can scarce hear a word. 
Then comes a hurried exchange of luggage from our 
ship to the steam-tug, the parting of passengers bound 
for England; the shaking of hands, and off* sputters 
the noisy little imp, spattering the water as if she 


HAVRE. 


37 


really felt her importance! 1 did not realize until 

my good friend Sheldon, with some others, had ac¬ 
tually gone, that a void was made in our little group. 
In a brief hour or less we had hoisted anchor, and 
were steaming across the Channel for Havre. Nu¬ 
merous small craft dotted the water, but feebly reflect¬ 
ing the grand events for which the English Channel 
is historic. The muse and historian have combined 
to immortalize the fierce struggle on this spot for the 
empire of the seas between the armaments of Yon 
Tromp and Blake. Fearful was the contest and 
doubtful the issue for nearly four days and nights. 
The ill-fated Armada of Spain had here ridden in 
proud yet unsuccessful defiance, and stretched her 
powerful arms from shore to shore. Fire, and blood, 
and victory, and defeat had conspired to render this 
an interesting place; and as we steamed over the 
now placid waters of the Channel, I could but philo¬ 
sophize on the vanity which urged contending navies 
to pour out so much blood for trifles “ which may be 
grasped at thus ! ” The bright blue hills of Normandy 
soon greet our view, and “ La belle France,” the land 
of piety and of literature is before us ! We approach 
the bold, ragged bluffs, from whose towering heights 
on Cape La Heve the friendly light-house is seen. 
O how soothing to the eye, how cheering to the heart 
to look once again on green fields and human habita¬ 
tions ! Spy-glasses, opera-glasses, and strong eyes 
were in requisition. The anchor is dropped—the 
signal gun goes booming and reverberating from hill 
to hill with a strange yet welcome echo, for it seems 
to speak of land. The entrance to the port of Havre 


38 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


is impracticable for sliips or steamers, except during 
a few hours of each tide; and the pilot considered it 
unsafe to approach the city before the evening. We 
were all anxious to catch a glimpse of the u Liver¬ 
pool of France,” as Havre is called ; but it Avas con¬ 
cealed from view by a bend in the harbor. The pano¬ 
rama spread out before us was inexpressibly beauti¬ 
ful. The smooth, still waters, bespangled with count¬ 
less fishing smacks and pleasure yachts—the fortifica¬ 
tions frowning on us—the extensive works on which 
Russian prisoners were even then employed—a bright, 
lovely morning, balmy as a spring day—the clouds 
tinged with golden hues, and the glorious Seine 
sparkling on our right in the effulgence of the rising 
sun—oh, it is lovely! At length boats, rowed, sailed, 
paddled, and urged by every species of locomotion, 
came off from shore in numbers almost vieing with 
the locusts of Egypt—of all sizes and shapes, from a 
little cradle on the water to a good-sized barge, from 
the spruce, tight cutter to the tub or wash-bowl, long, 
and square, and round, and no shaped; on they 
come, dancing on the waves, bringing Avith them a 
clatter and confusion of tongues as unintelligible as 
it was amusing to me, for so unexpectedly had all this 
clamor arisen that I stood Avondering, and thankful 
that ours was not the fate of Sir Sydney Smith, who, 
not far from where we were, whilst endeavoring to cut 
out a French frigate unfortunately got stranded, and 
Avas captured by just such a Lilliputian fleet as that 
now making down for us! Such confusion, such odd 
costume, red caps and blue, leather breeches and 
flannel, shrivelled up, dried old men with a nasal 


LANDING. 


39 


twang truly distressing, and little specimens of hu¬ 
manity in the shape of boys, scarce one yard high, 
bobbing up and down with the motion of the boat, 
all shouting at the top of their voice, what for the 
life of me I could not catch, although it was evident 
they had come to take off passengers and their lug¬ 
gage, each on his own hook. Here was a dilemma. 
The city was six miles from us, and we could only 
enter the harbor on the next tide, which would detain 
us where we were until evening. Should we trust 
ourselves in one of these eggshells, and try the for¬ 
tunes of the sea on a new scale, or stay where we were 
cribbed and caged for so many hours ? Important 
question. Many of our passengers made no hesita¬ 
tion ; then such a getting up of baggage never was 
seen! Trunks, boxes, valises, bundles, hoisted up 
from the deep hold, forward passengers, whom I had 
not seen during the entire voyage, of all shapes, sizes, 
and costumes, young men and old, grizzly gray and 
foppish one-and-twenty, down they go, helter-skelter 
into the boats, close on each other, piling up their lug¬ 
gage both animate and inanimate until the dancing 
little craft at the ship’s side seems almost sinking; 
shouting men, screaming women, boatmen cursing in 
very bad French through their trumpet noses; off she 
goes, that little boat laden with every thing from hu¬ 
man life to “ fish, flesh, fowl, and even red herring,’; 
out go the oars, up she mounts on the dancing waves 
like a bird floating on the water—three cheers in 
French or English or any thing, and we waive “ good¬ 
bye ” to the hardy crew as they mount and sink on 
the waves, pulling away for life on their way to the 


40 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


city! Among the earliest to decamp was our little 
friend the Frenchman. With divers bows and scrapes, 
awkward attempts at polite flourishes, he gave most 
of us his card, illegibly scrawled on the margin of an 
old newspaper, and assured us he would be so “ ver 
satisfied for meet us in ze city of Lyons! ” His 
little skull cap or callotte was gone, and a huge stove 
pipe, or round hat towered above his cabbage-look¬ 
ing head, the veriest odd fish I ever met! Nearly all 
had gone, and yet, I scarce knew why, I lingered be¬ 
hind ; perhaps through dread to trust myself, after 
so many “ ups and downs,” in one of those pitiful lit¬ 
tle boats. I had resolved to stay on board till the 
evening tide, when Capt. Lefevre introduced me to 
Mr. Christie, the gentlemanly agent of the Vander¬ 
bilt line of steamers at Havre. He had come down 
from the city in his splendid craft, as large as an or¬ 
dinary pilot-boat. He kindly offered me a seat in his 
“ Swan,” as he called her. I accepted, and in a few 
moments my little all, consisting simply of cloak, um¬ 
brella, and travelling-bag, was deposited in the 
“ Swan.” Taking a hasty leave of the captain and 
his officers, I descended the side of the ship and we 
pushed off. Soon the sails were set, and I could but 
feel sad as we passed the noble little Ariel, then like 
a wearied bird folding her wings on the bosom of the 
sea. Strange how soon we become attached to sur¬ 
rounding objects! The prisoner learns to love his 
cell, and even I felt gloomy leaving the ship which 
had conveyed me safely across the ocean. On we 
sailed, meeting and passing many of the little crafts 


THE FRENCH CUSTOM-HOUSE. 


41 


laden as above, until turning the bend which had 
concealed the city from view, Havre opened on us. 

It would be impossible to describe my feelings, as 
once again I gazed on houses, walls, and crowds of 
human beings. All seemed strange. I had often seen 
pictures of Havre, and I thought myself pretty well 
posted on its general appearance; but how different 
the reality from any representation ! Its long line of 
fortifications, the splendid entrance to the harbor, the 
long line of docks, the lofty castellated houses, seven 
and eight stories high—each seeming a fort within it¬ 
self—the queer dresses of men, women, and children; 
all, as we approached a landing point, was matter 
of wonder. We, doubtless, must have presented as 
odd a figure to the crowds on the quay as they to us. 
Scarce had we touched the wharf, when a gendarme, 
dressed “ a la militaire,’’advancing politely, saluted us, 
marshalled us in file, and conducted us to the custom¬ 
house; a queer-looking concern indeed. There we 
were ushered into a hall, where a noble-looking offi¬ 
cer, the very quintessence of politeness and cologne, 
simply asked whether we had about our persons any 
contraband goods, and most gracefully saluted us with 
a brief “ allez! ” Our passports were not even asked 
for, and we were instructed to call at three P. M. for 
our baggage. We were then free to go whithersoever 
the spirit moved. Here then I am, once more on 
land ! How strange the sensation! I can scarce realize 
that the ground beneath me does not rock like the deck 
of the ship. How often I catch myself swaying back 
and forward from side to side in true sailor fashion, 
as down the foot goes suddenly to preserve my equili- 


42 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


brium. I was most fortunate in selecting quarters in 
the “ Hotel Bordeaux.” There was an air of comfort 
about the rooms ; a good-natured, motherly old lady, 
did the honors of reception. I was soon conducted to 
my quarters, a snug, wainscotted, and brick-tiled 
apartment in the third story ; and once more I found 
myself in a house. I had not been many minutes 
there when, to my great surprise, the venerable Mon¬ 
seigneur Bourjet, Bishop, of Montreal, Canada, en¬ 
tered my room. I had had the honor of an interview 
with the holy man some years before while on a tour 
through the Canadas ; and, in meeting him thus unex¬ 
pectedly, it seemed renewing old acquaintance. He 
remembered our previous meeting. Kindly asked 
after my Bev. Brother, and welcomed me to France. 
After taking some refreshments I sallied forth. What 
clattering of sabots or wooden shoes on the rough 
stone pavements. What narrow streets, all guiltless 
of the modern improvement, sidewalks—what gloomy 
and high houses, whose tops seem literally leaning 
against each other, so that, I am sure, even at mid¬ 
day the sun, seldom, if ever, reaches the lower stories. 
True, the day has become rainy, and this may add to 
the dirty appearance of the place, yet Havre is de¬ 
cidedly, in my opinion, a dirty city. Like Broad¬ 
way in Hew York, an uninterrupted stream of human¬ 
ity of all nations, tribes and tongues, pours through 
these narrow thoroughfares : the women in their high- 
crowned caps, gray petticoats and sabots; the men in 
their sugar-loafed hats, corduroy breeches, and “ swag¬ 
gering” gait; the lanterns suspended in the middle of 
the streets from chains reaching from side to side; in 


THE CURE OF NOTRE DAME. 


43 


short, the first impressions of the stranger in Havre 
are any thing but prepossessing. And yet, how un¬ 
just for tourists and travellers to censure the manners, 
customs, and social habits of countries, differing in 
language and religion, merely because they chime not 
in with their prejudices! What to me seems odd, to 
these good people is familiar, and my awkwardness 
or evident greenness is amusing to them, as their 
quaint customs are to me. 

Wending my way through crowded, narrow and 
dirty streets, I sought the cure or Parish Priest 
of “Hotre Dame,” the parish church of this dis¬ 
trict. I found him a kind, hospitable old man, busily 
occupied with his breviary. He asked me many - 
questions relative to America, and seemed to have cor¬ 
rect notions of our Southern institutions. I passed a 
most agreeable hour with this good priest, and then 
returned to my hotel. What a luxury is a good bed ! 
How the poor, sea-tossed wanderer, when, once again 
released from the narrow limits of a berth in a steamer, 
he finds himself on a feather-bed on land, will pitch 
about for very joy that he has room to measure his 
length and breadth in quiet, without that eternal, 
sidling, rolling motion he has so long endured ; and 
every now and then he’ll start as if to keep himself 
from pitching out, as he dozes off in half-quiet, half- 
disturbed slumbers! 


CHAPTER YII. 


/ 


Church and Mass at Notre Dame—Reflections of author—Scene at custom¬ 
house—Tricks on travellers—Srief history of Rouen—Funeral proces¬ 
sion and grave-yard—How some form rash judgments—Dinner on board 
Ariel in Havre—School practice for French drummers—Difference be¬ 
tween Havre workmen and ours—The French naturally soldiers—Man¬ 
ners, customs and street scenes in Havre—Abbe Herval and the library 
—Night prayers and benediction at Notre Dame—Edifying youth at 
prayer—Morning prayer, mass, benediction, &c., at Notre Dame—Inte¬ 
rior of church—Interesting trait of filial affection—French railroad de¬ 
pots—Farewell to Havre. 


E landed in Havre on Monday, 19th November, 



* * thus making sixteen days since we left New 
York. The next morning I rose after a tolerably re¬ 
freshing sleep, and at an early hour repaired to 
“Notre Dame ” for confession and holy mass. Even 
then, there were large numbers in the church. Many 
men, both old and young, in military and in citizen’s 
dress. Iliad the happiness of saying holy.mass at 
the altar of the Blessed Virgin. What were the 
wanderer’s feelings at that moment! There he was, a 
stranger in a strange land—far from all he loved on 
earth—from all on earth who loved him. In the 
crowd around him, no face was familiar—none knew 
the exile, none cared for the stranger! Thousands of 
miles separated him from home, and there he stood to 


THE CUSTOM-HOTJSE AGAIN. 


45 


offer tlie same mystic lamb which so often in his far- 
off home he had immolated. Sweet, yet thrilling 
was the moment, and as he proceeded, tears were 
blended with his prayer, while he remembered and 
prayed for those far away. Gratitude to God for a 
safe voyage, his fatherly protection during his future 
wanderings, and his watchful care over the “ loved 
ones at home,”— such was the lone one’s prayer. 

I should have remarked that according to instruc¬ 
tions, three o’clock, P. M., yesterday, found me at 
the custom-house, where whom should I meet but 
Mons. Frenchman ! He seemed as delighted as if we 
had met after a year of separation! and it was with 
“ much ado ” I could free myself from his pressing 
invitation to share his hospitality at his hotel. Poor 
little fellow! I have never met him since ; but with 
all his eccentricities and oddities, he deserves our gra¬ 
titude for having relieved the tedium of a voyage across 
the Atlantic. Peace go with him, and “ ze aptite” also. 
I was amused, while at the cusiom-house to witness 
the hurly-burly, and excitement—trunks, bandboxes, 
carpet-bags, valises, bundles, packages, and every 
thing in that line, all piled in glorious confusion—each 
one striving to pull out what belonged to him, as bus¬ 
tling, noisy waiters hustled them away to the officers, 
to be opened and searched. Such a medley, such an 
exposure of all sorts of wearables. There was an 
active, masculine, yet good-natured old woman, 
present to examine, I suppose, the ladies’ baggage, 
but as there w T as just at that moment little in that 
line, she kept her hand in by overhauling my poor 
valise, which was guiltless, indeed, of all contraband 


46 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


articles. I could with difficulty refrain from laughing 
outright, at the very unnecessary trouble she was tak¬ 
ing, and at the off-hand manner and tone in which she 
pushed the harmless valise towards me with—“ Al- 
lez,” which, in our idiom might be conveyed, perhaps 
by, “ There, now you may run along ! ” The “ tricks 
on travellers ” here began, and as I had yet to learn 
something of journeying in Europe, I put this down 
as a good beginning; for, as I was making off quite con¬ 
tentedly with my scanty baggage, up rushes a wolfish- 
looking fellow with a tin sign or number on his cap, 
peremptorily ordering me to stand ! Why ?—merely 
to give him two francs ! For what ? Why, it vras his 
due. The barbarian, thinking I could not cope with 
him, was rather insolent, when turning to a gendarme, 
I requested him to protect me against the fellow’s 
insolence, when, lo ! he had made tracks, and I, fortu¬ 
nate in having so little luggage, quietly left the door. 

After breakfast this morning at mine host of Ho¬ 
tel Bordeaux, I sallied forth on a tour of discovery. 
Havre is very favorably situated on the north bank 
of the mouth or I’embouchure of the Seine, and is said 
to be among the most flourishing ports in France. It 
was founded during the reign of Francis I. If it can¬ 
not boast of historical monuments and ancient associa¬ 
tions, it can pride itself on the regularity and beauty 
with which the streets are laid out, on its splendid 
public buildings, and on being the birthplace of some 
among the choicest writers of the last century, among 
whom may be mentioned Bernardin de St. Pierre and 
Casimir Delavigne. The basin, the breakwater, and 
the port, are among the finest in France. The pret- 


HAVRE. 


47 


tiest portion of the city, once a suburb, but now 
united to the town by the destruction of the fortified 
walls which lately divided them, is situated on a 
gently rising bill, called Ingouville. This is the fash¬ 
ionable part. From its elevated position, the pano¬ 
rama of the city below, the harbor, shipping, and sur¬ 
rounding country, is grand. I found myself here, 
without scarce knowing it; for, following in the train 
of a funeral procession, the first I had ever witnessed 
of the kind, time and distance were unheeded. It 
was quite early in the forenoon, the day was pleasant 
and bright, and a large number of priests, preceded 
by the cross and candles, were chanting through the 
streets the plaintive “ miserere.” A long procession 
of men followed. I was told that, unless at children’s 
funerals, females seldom appear. It was the burial of 
a pious woman; and I observed that the old nurse 
who had attended her walked next to the bier, bear¬ 
ing a lamp in her hand—why, I do not understand. 
Arrived at the cemetery, the usual ceremonies were 
performed, and each one, passing before the grave, 
threw a handful of earth upon the coffin. I noticed 
a sweet custom of entwining wreaths of flowers around 
the crosses and tombstones. Here I may as well re¬ 
mark how easily, and yet with how little solid reason, 
some are or profess to be scandalized; for I have 
learned to believe, that half this twaddle about being 
scandalized smacks of that mock modesty, which is said 
to have induced a very sentimental lady to refuse going 
to the piano until her husband covered the legs, which 
were too bare for her! I too imagined myself not 
edified; for, with notions completely Jansenistical, 


48 


MT TRIP TO FRANCE. 


I condemned what in itself was harmless, but yet not 
according to my views of propriety. The attendant 
who carried the processional cross, and whom I thought 
a priest, was a spruce, tidy specimen of humanity, 
lie was solemn, if you will; but there was that about 
him so different from the others—the careless wan¬ 
dering of his eye, the half professional and half off¬ 
handed way in which he sang the responses in his 
clear, sonorous voice, and then his carefully combed 
and smooth beard and jet-black whiskers. I began 
to think that, after all, the priests in France are not 
so very edifying. So argued with himself, and so 
thought, the sojourner of a single day ! But how 
falsely he concluded, how rashly he judged! The 
whilom priest was a farm-hand, a cultivator of the 
vine, a good, pious layman, employed on all such oc¬ 
casions because he had so good a voice ; a custom 
universal in France, and which I remember to have 
seen in Canada. I learned a lesson of humility from 
the fact. 

About two P. M. I met Capt. Lefevre, and was urged 
to dine with him on board the Ariel, which was now 
quietly moored at her dock. Already all was confu¬ 
sion and bustle on board ; a number of hands unload¬ 
ing the cargo, heaving in coal, and, although.but just 
off the ocean, preparations were making for a home¬ 
ward trip. I could but observe the difference between 
these workingmen and ours in Hew York. Here they 
work by system. They do just so much, even under 
the highest “ pressure ” system ; they seem to think 
that work was made for them, not they for work, and 
neither favor, interest, nor inopey, can urge them be- 


FRENCH DRUMMERS. 


49 


yond the slow, dog-trot pace they think fast enough. 
A word of rebuke from the employer, and they 
quit work. Indeed, I really think one Irishman in 
America will do as much as five of these workmen at 
Havre; so thought others. During dinner, which 
was served in style, the Bishop of Montreal came on 
board to select state-rooms for some Sisters of Charity, 
who are about leaving France for his distant diocese. 
Thus, thought I, goes the world—some going, some 
coming—change, ever changing—hearts for ever sad, 
yet all tending to eternity ! There was a noise, as of 
distant thunder, rumbling over the hill. I inquired, 
and learned that it was from the French drummers, 
whose hour of practice it was. As all was novelty to 
me, I walked towards the spot, and sure enough there 
were about sixty young men in French uniform, di¬ 
vided into bands according to their proficiency, some 
under a guide, others on their own hook, all beating 
away most lustily on their “ tambours.” It was con¬ 
fusion confounded ! The small brass French drum I 
do not like as well as our old-fashioned Yankee arti- 
ticle. I learned that these were young conscripts, 
just drafted into the army, and were here for awhile 
at school, before being sent to the Crimea, to beat 
their martial music to the accompaniment of cannon¬ 
balls, dying shrieks, and “ war’s desolation ! ” Poor 
fellows, food for powder, disease, and death! A 
woman passed me, as I was returning, with her face 
flushed with running, and weeping aloud. She car¬ 
ried a little basket. It was doubtless the mother, sis¬ 
ter or wife of one of those conscript soldiers, taking 
him a parting gift, mayhap a pair of stockings, a 
VOL. I.— 3 


50 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


prayer-book, or some little memento, ere they parted, 
to meet perhaps no more. Truly the French are horn 
soldiers. It is seen in all, even the humblest laborers. 
One with whom I casually entered into conversation, 
seemed surprised when I asked him if there were not 
much grief and sorrow when, on drawing the lots, as 
is the case every few years, to fill the army, the lot 
fell on young men who had aged parents to support. 
“ Yes,” he replied, “ J tis hard; I may perhaps be 
fated to go, as we have to draw lots in a few weeks, 
and I am the only support of my old father and 
mother; but France, sir, France,” and his face glowed 
with excitement, “ is my country, and it is our duty 
to serve our country! ” 1STo wonder the “ Grand 
Army ” knows how to be killed, but not how to turn 
and run ! Passing through the “ Pue de Paris,” per¬ 
haps the most beautiful street of the city, I stopped 
to admire the varied scene before me. There were 
old women, with steeple-crowned caps, with a kind 
of frame, like a depot-wheelbarrow, lashed to their 
shoulders, filled with little bundles of finely chopped 
sticks for sale ; others with short sticks and hooks at 
their ends, stooping over and diligently poking in the 
gutters, and every little heap of rubbish, as they most 
dexterously tossed each old scrap of paper, rag or iron, 
into the basket lashed to their shoulders. Here was 
a sign announcing in bad English what was for sale ; 
every twentieth man a soldier of some sort, in his 
dashing red trowsers and close fitting jacket or fa¬ 
tigue-dress ; priests noiselessly flitting by, with modest 
demeanor, three-cornered hats and rabba ; beggars of 
all sorts, shapes, and sizes, some with trained dogs or 


STREET SCENES IN HAVRE. 


51 


monkeys holding a basket in their months or paws, as 
they walked on their hind-legs quite philosophically ; 
here a splendid store, in which, as is customary all 
over France, ladies served as clerks, “ knights,” or 
rather “ ladies ” of the yard-stick, scissors, and tape; 
huge drays and splendid horses, with most uncouth 
and cumbrous harness—hames projecting above the 
collar like the horns of an ox, and saddle large enough 
to conceal half an ordinary horse; drays like young 
ships, loaded with five hogsheads of sugar, and some 
with fifteen bales of cotton; noisy parrots at almost 
every third door, saucily jabbering in patois all sorts 
of phrases, sometimes cursing you in good round num¬ 
bers ; here a posse of little urchins, gay as larks, and 
there a squad of young bipeds, full to the brim of 
martial glory, or, yankee-like, tumbling summersets, 
and (what do you think?) all speaking French! then 
again coffee-burners, soup-boilers, tinkers and cooks, 
each at his profession in the street, all bowing so 
gracefully to the passer-by ; even the meanest beggar 
vies in this peculiar trait with the highest in the land, 
as if he’d rather be politely refused than gruffly 
aided. Indeed, to me every thing was novel, from 
the dog-sized donkey, with his huge panniers, to the 
young elephant-sized horse ; from the slanting, block- 
paved streets, with gutters in the middle, and lamps 
suspended from chains crossing the streets, to the 
bands of “ tambours ” who, without fife, were met at 
almost every hour, beating away as if they had a spite 
against their drum-heads. 

'By invitation I met at three P. M. Monsieur L’Abbe 
I-Ierval, one of the vicars of Notre Dame, with whom 


52 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


I visited the Museum, Library, &c. These are of but 
comparatively late origin, yet give promise of future 
importance. One of the most extensive collections 
of medals I had ever seen was here arranged, and in 
great part presented by the Abbe Ilerval, who, be¬ 
sides being a holy and laborious priest, is a perfect 
enthusiast in this line. How anxiously he begged me 
to procure for him, or aid him in procuring, the me¬ 
dallions or medals of all our Presidents! It seemed 
that, in his admiration for Washington and America, 
he would have given half he possessed to procure 
them ! I traced my name and the date on a page of 
“Fabiola,” which had been given me by a cherished 
friend on leaving Baltimore, and presented it to the 
Library. Shall I ever again see that volume ? Hous 
verrons. The Angelus was ringing as I entered Hotre 
Dame, and already the church was half filled with a 
pious throng for evening devotion. It is the custom 
to have night prayers, singing, and benediction in 
the churches of Havre every evening. It is a sweet 
and holy custom; and here were gathering, after the 
toil and labor of the day, after the wear and tear of 
worldly pursuits, hearts sometimes saddened by the 
day’s events, and spirits weakened by contact wfitli 
the world ; here they come—parents to pray for chil¬ 
dren, children to supplicate Heaven for parents, the 
old to prepare for eternity, the young to ask of God 
His holy guidance, love, and grace ! How sweet the 
idea! how elevating the influence of such holy cus¬ 
toms ! And among the crowd gathered around God’s 
holy altar was a stranger, lonely and sad; tears were 
in his eyes, and his lips quivered as he bowed his 


NOTRE DAME AT HAVRE. 


53 


head before the Sacred Host at The Benediction ; for 
the old familiar hymns were heard. The “ O Salu- 
taris Hostia ” and “ Tantum Ergo ” he had so oft en- 
toned now fell on his ear, and in the fulness of his 
soul he wept unseen by all save Heaven! By his side 
knelt a sweet child, a lad of apparently fifteen years, 
an angel in appearance, so calm, so 'heavenly that 
face ! He seemed in ecstasy; with his hands clasped, 
his eyes uplifted and resting on the altar, I could al¬ 
most fancy he was listening to the angels whispering 
to him ! France, France, thou art still Catholic, and 
God’s blessing is o’er thee ! At the close there were 
little gatherings around most of the confessionals, 
men, women, and youths. 

On the following days I visited the other churches 
and principal places of interest in Havre—the gar¬ 
dens, baths, squares, docks and shipping. Of all the 
churches, however, the most interesting to me is No¬ 
tre Dame. It is an ancient-looking edifice, pointed, 
gothic style of architecture, if I remember correctly, 
and was undergoing repairs when I was there. Like 
all the churches in Europe, the floor is marble or 
stone-paved. As I had never before seen side chap¬ 
els, it was singularly interesting to me to examine the 
secret little altars in these recesses, of which there 
are twelve. Every thing around the altars, the lin¬ 
ens, candle-sticks, cruets so scrupulously clean, so 
many priests officiating at the side altars, worshippers 
at each, particularly at one behind the grand altar, 
and dedicated in honor of the Blessed Virgin, where 
from the crowd of communicants I at first thought it 
was a .feast day, but learned it was always thus. The 


54 


MY TEIP TO FRANCE. 


piety of the men and children, and morning prayers, 
meditation and benediction of Blessed Sacrament at 
daylight—these and other considerations attached me 
to this church. It is strange to me to hear the noisy 
clatter of wooden shoes on the stone floor, as men, 
women and children patter down the aisles. The 
principal altar is at the end of the sanctuary or 
choir, and is grand. Around and in front of the al¬ 
tar are arranged the stalls or seats for the clergy on 
each side ; and the service on Sundays and festivals 
is sung exclusively by male voices. This is the cus¬ 
tom pretty generally throughout Europe. There are 
many paintings in the church, but none struck me as 
particularly worthy of attention. There is an air of 
holiness and grand simplicity in and around the edi¬ 
fice, and I left it reluctantly. The church of St. 
Francis is a more simple building, yet exceedingly 
beautiful inside. Here too I was fortunate enough to 
assist at benediction. The ceremonies, chaunting, 
&c., were quite different from ours. All present sang 
in common, and above the rest I could readily detect 
the shrill voices of the red cassocked choir boys. I 
met at this church the venerable Superior of the 
Trappists in the United States. He starts in a few 
days for home. 

I had now been four days in Havre, and felt quite 
recruited. Little time had been lost; indeed few 
could have explored the city more industriously, and 
it was time to think of starting for Rouen. The last 
evening of my sojourn in Havre was marked by so 
beautiful a trait of filial affection, that I will here re¬ 
late it. I had become deeply interested in a little 


FILIAL AFFECTION. 


55 


child about twelve years old, the daughter of mine 
host. Each evening she would smile a welcome as I 
entered the family parlor. She was evidently an ex¬ 
otic plant; the atmosphere of this world was too cold, 
too earthly for so heavenly a flower; and the hacking 
cough, the hectic flush, and her pale, alabaster brow 
told plainly enough to one accustomed to such symp¬ 
toms, that she was going home to the little brother, 
“ mon cher petit frere,” of whom she so often spoke. 
O the depth, the wild, uncontrollable love of a pa¬ 
rent’s heart! Neither father nor mother could see 
what no one else could help seeing—the seal of death 
stamped upon her brow ; and they would speak of 
all they were going to do, where they were going to 
take her, and all that, after Jeannette got well! On 
this evening, while all were seated around a comfort¬ 
able fire, talking now of this and then of that, little 
Jeanny, as usual, seated in her arm-chair near me, 
her father was summoned to the office or reception 
hall, to attend to some new arrival. It was about 
10 P. M. Soon her mother suggested it was time for 
her to retire ; she must be tired, &c. The dear little 
creature hung her head, then looked at me as if afraid 
to express her feelings, and bursting into tears, re¬ 
plied in her sweet childish accents, rendered sweeter 
to me by being pronounced in French, “ Ah, mamma! 
you know I can’t sleep if papa don’t kiss me good 
night! ” Dear child! I could have clasped her in 
my arms, and hurried with her to her papa! ITe 
soon came in. Her tiny arms were clasped around 
his neck, and “ papa kissed her good night! ” It 
was a simple yet an affecting spectacle, and perhaps 


56 


MY TRIP TO FKAJSTCE. 


under other circumstances it would not have touched 
me so sensibly, but now it brought to mind an aged 
mother and an only sister, who might never “ kiss me 
good night” again. 

Early the next morning I was at the depot to start 
for Rouen. The railroad stations in France are con¬ 
ducted vastly different from ours. In America all is 
noise, bustle and confusion. In France all is order, 
silence and strict rule. The passengers are quartered 
off in halls, according to the class of cars they choose. 
The luggage is weighed and ticketed. Hone are al¬ 
lowed to leave the halls, as the doors leading to the 
cars are locked, and opened only three minutes be¬ 
fore starting. There is something painful in the si¬ 
lence at the depot. The doors are opened ; then 
comes a rush for seats, but strange enough no confu¬ 
sion. Officers are in attendance to point each to his 
class, and you do then as best you can. Partly 
through economy, and partly through other motives, 
I purchased a second class ticket. The bell rings, 
the whistle screams, the cars move off, and now— 
adieu to Havre ! 


CHAPTER Till. 


Travelling companions to Rouen—Scenery and railroad—Reach Rouen— 
Brief historical notice of the city—Yisit to statue of “Joan of Arc”— 
Reflections—Hotel de Bourgtherolde—Palais de Justice—Salle des Pro¬ 
curers—Polite concierge or guardian. 


A MOTLEY group indeed have I for companions. 

Soldiers, sailors, bloused farmers and field hands ; 
literally “ whiskered pandoors and fierce hussars ! ” 
All is life and animation. These French are truly a 
blithesome, happy race. How the women’s tongues 
do rattle ! They wear no bonnets even when travel¬ 
ling, but quaint-looking caps. Here a gay, laughing 
brunette, who chatters away, and seems to think “La 
Normandie” the Eden of creation. There is a rick¬ 
ety, old, wheezing granny smoking her pipe, and 
smiling as contentedly as though snug in the chimney 
corner with her knitting. Just on the next seat is a 
strange quadruped or biped, I scarce know which; a 
kind of nondescript. He is too essentially ugly to be 
looked at, and seems afraid to look at himself! In 
front of me sat a pale, interesting young soldier, who, 
I learned, had just returned from the wars. He was 
exceedingly modest, even diffident. His arm had 
been shattered by a ball, and after suffering almost 
3 * 



58 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


incredible hardships at the taking of Sebastopol, he 
had been sent home on the sick list. After an ab¬ 
sence of two years he was now on his way to the 
home of his childhood, Yvetot, the wreck only of the 
proud gay boy he had left it. Still it was his home ; 
and even as “ the wounded hare doubles in its last ex¬ 
tremity to its early lair,” so, wounded and shattered 
in health, this young soldier sought that sweetest spot 
on earth, his home! On leaving us at Yvetot he 
could scarcely walk through weakness and excitement 
From Havre to Kouen, France is a continued gar¬ 
den; the country is beautifully cultivated, and is dotted 
with numerous villages, farms and splendid resi¬ 
dences. There are few if any walls or fences between 
adjoining farms, each party seeming to know his own 
in peace; tile-covered, earth-covered, and thatched cot¬ 
tages, fences or thick hedges each side of the railroad, 
which keep out effectually all obstructions in the way 
of cattle ; the track double all the way, and as well 
raked as a garden walk ; guards in a kind of military 
costume stationed at every mile, standing flag in hand, 
to signal the passing trains ; beautiful and commo¬ 
dious station-houses; the turnpike seldom crossing 
the track, and then gates well guarded and opened 
only at certain hours of the day. A corps of attend¬ 
ants and officers, at eanh stopping place. And then, 
that simple cross surmounting the parish church, 
which is nearly always on the most elevated point of 
the village, looking down upon the surrounding houses 
as an emblem of faith, of hope and protection—the 
curd’s residence and glebe attached. Indeed no one 
can look on the scene with unprejudiced mind, with- 


ROUEN. 


59 


out admiring it. Passing through a frightful tunnel 
nearly three miles long we enter, after a journey of 
two hours and a half, the city of Rouen, famed for its 
historical associations, its monuments, churches and 
fountains, once the capital of Normandy, now the 
head-quarters of the department of the Lower Seine, 
and an important port of entry. The depot is at an 
inconvenient distance from the city for foot passengers, 
hut shouldering my valise and edging my way as best 
I could through the crowd of porters, travellers and 
loungers, I followed in the train and soon brought up 
at the “ Hotel de Paris,” a queer-looking place, near 
the market house. A bargain was struck for a room, 
my luggage deposited, and in five minutes I was out 
“ sight seeing.” 

The ancient city of Rouen stands on the right bank 
of the Seine. It has an extensive commerce; and 
from the numerous manufactories in and around it has 
received the title of the “Manchester” of France. 
It is separated by the river from the suburban town 
of Saint Sever, which by right forms but one and the 
same city, as they are connected by several bridges. 
Before entering on a description even brief, of its prin¬ 
cipal churches and monuments, it may be well to re¬ 
mark, that Rouen is among the most ancient cities of 
Gaul. True we do not find Rhotomages or Rouen 
mentioned by Csesar in his “ Commentaries,” nor does 
Mela in his geographical researches make mention of 
it; yet in the early portion of the second century we 
find that Rouen was the capital of a warlike people 
of Normandy. From discoveries made in 1789 in ex¬ 
cavating the city, but little doubt can exist that the 


60 


MT TRIP TO FRANCE. 


Homans had erected walls and fortifications around 
it, and although it may not have been among the 
most noted places of the empire, the presumption is 
that it was a regularly fortified city. Nor is Rouen less 
interesting in an ecclesiastical point of view; for the 
history of the church informs us that many among 
the earliest apostles of Christianity proceeded to 
Rouen or Rhotomages, as to a centre from which 
the truths of salvation might the more effectually di¬ 
verge to all points of Gaul. In the commencement 
of the fourth century, even anterior to the year 314, 
we find a church dedicated to God under the patron¬ 
age of the blessed Virgin Mary, by St. Melanius, who 
was probably the first bishop of Rouen. From age 
to age Christianity advanced with varied success. 
Now in the ascendant, befriended by and befriending 
all, again persecuted by foes, or made the cloak for 
violence by rival chieftains. From about 841 to 915 
Rouen with its dependencies was the scene of carnage, 
fire, and ruin. To adopt the words of the historian 
of the city, “ strangers devoured the country; the 
population was massacred, desolation reigned su¬ 
preme : discord, avarice, hatred, and rapacity w T as the 
order of the day.” But the time of redemption was at 
hand ; and by a mysterious providence, he who had 
been the scourge, was now to be the regenerator of 
Rouen. Rollo, the converted chief of the nortlnnen 
and the first Duke of Normandy, stayed the ravages 
of war. He improved the city, extended its limits, 
promoted agriculture, and erected temples to the glory 
of God. Ilis son William of the “long sword” co¬ 
operated with his father in these noble works ; and 


ROUEN. 


61 


as they were united in life by similarity of purpose, 
they are side by side in the ancient cathedral. His¬ 
tory bears testimony to the heroism of clergy and peo¬ 
ple during the various sieges; by Otho emperor of 
the Allamands, in 949 ; by Louis II. king of France; 
Arnauld, Count of Flanders; by Philip Augustus in 
1204; by Henry I. king of England, in 1118 ; at the 
memorable battle of 1444, at the conclusion of which 
Charles II. reconquered the city from the English; 
and finally, the painful siege under Henry H. in 
1591. Formerly there were in the city thirty-seven 
parish churches, and nearly as many religious institu¬ 
tions for both sexes. At present there are but six, 
having attached eight suburban or succursal chapels, 
besides a handsome edifice for protestant service, and 
one Jewish Synagogue. There are also in the city, 
three large halls, eight market-houses, twenty-one 
public squares, some of them truly splendid, upwards 
of seventeen thousand houses, four hundred and 
eighty streets, and a population of about one hundred 
thousand. Such is a brief outline of the ancient and 
present state of Rouen ; gathered in part from docu¬ 
ments in the library of St. Ouen, and partly from 
actual observation. 

Leaving my hotel situated in the corner of “ La 
Rue des Bons Enfans ” and “ La Rue Ecuvere ” 
opposite the “ Marche Neuf,” the first place I sought 
was the statue of u Joan of Arc,” whose tragic death 
was here accomplished, and for whose name and his¬ 
tory I had cherished the liveliest interest from early 
childhood. I found it readily. It is situated in the 
centre of a low, dirty square, called “ Place de la 


62 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


Pucelle.” I had often read of its unworthy appearance, 
of its being the centre of fish stalls, carriage stands, 
and beef market, and I was prepared to be surprised 
at what I might see; but what was my indignation 
and disgust at the dirty, filthy spectacle that greeted 
me, as passing “ La Grande Rue,” I came suddenly 
on this “ Golgotha ” of fish, flesh, stench, and confu¬ 
sion ! Surmounting a mean apology for a fountain, at 
which horses, donkeys, cows, and two-legged animals 
were drinking, stands a heavy, sleepy, uncouth sta¬ 
tue, helmeted and mailed, conveying as expressive an 
idea of the martyred heroine of Orleans, as the unsightly 
statue of Columbus and the squaw, at the east en¬ 
trance of the capitol at Washington, does of the early 
history of America ! Out upon such a heresy in art, 
such barbarism in taste ! I had cherished the hope that, 
though oxen might bellow and donkeys bray, though 
piles of market garbage, and crowded thoroughfares 
might impede my progress, I should still gaze upon a 
statue worthy the name of ‘ Jeanne d’Arc’—one which, 
however simple, might serve to recall the character, the 
virginal modesty, and heroic deeds, of the “ Maid of 
Orleans.” Reader, judge of my disappointment when, 
as I have hinted, a huge, almost shapeless block of 
stone, half human, half monster—and, if I may be al¬ 
lowed the blunder, the other half a compound of mil¬ 
itary and senseless drapery, stood heavily on a shape¬ 
less pile called a fountain! And this in Rouen! 
This is the spot on which the matchless maid, the 
warrior shepherd girl from the forests of Lorraine, the 
heroine of Soissons, Senlis, Orleans, and St. Dennis, 
the pure bright being who waved the “ Oriflamme ” 


JEANNE d’aRC. 


63 


and scattered tlie enemies of the pusillanimous Charles 
VII. ; she who inspired the drooping courage of the 
army, and in seven days raised the siege of Orleans, 
thus placing the crown upon the Dauphin’s brow and 
saving France from anarchy and defeat, this is the 
spot on which she died; this is the stage on which 
was enacted that foul murder, which has stamped the 
accusers, the jury, and the judge, with bigotry, revenge 
and cowardice. Thou baby king, who, trembling, hung 
upon her words, as she bade thee, in God’s name, 
“ On to the Crown at Kheims,” while her gleaming 
sword lighted on thy armies to victory—where! oh 
where wast thou, when the wounded maid, in chains, 
in prison, and in tortures, prayed for thee and for 
thy cause ? O ! where was manhood, where u’as the 
last expiring ember of gratitude, when, insulted and 
accused of deeds as foreign to her soul as crime to an 
angel’s love, she clanked her chains in hopeless cap¬ 
tivity and saw slow death coming ! Yonder stands 
the hall, at once her judgment-seat and prison, where, 
when asked on her mock trial, why, during the coro¬ 
nation of the Dauphin, at the cathedral church of 
Kheims, she stood by his side with banner unfurled 
and proudly waved it over him, she answered, “ It has 
shared the danger, it has a right to share the glory 
of its king! ” O faithless, coward king! Thou art 
crowned monarch of France, and Joan of Arc, thy 
temporal savior and thy guide, is a pinioned captive 
for twelve weary months in the dungeons of Kouen! 
She dies! is burned at the stake by an English foe, 
on the soil of France, and thy craven soul makes 
no effort for her rescue ! 


64 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


Such were the feelings which came over me as I 
stood at the base of her statue. 

Here was erected that lofty pile on which “ Joan ” 
was to die! Here (then as now a market place), 
an excited multitude was gathered, and an escort 
of eight hundred spearsmen guarded the lonely, 
friendless female (not yet nineteen), all unarmed and 
defenceless as she was, to her place of execution. 
Here, perhaps, on this spot, on which I stand, she 
sank to the earth, as her streaming eyes rested on the 
platform, erected on piles of faggots. Here she 
turned and asked for her little crucifix, then mounted 
the steps, and stood and prayed aloud, calling with 
her dying breath on the sweet name of Jesus, while 
the sluggish flames (half unwilling to do their deed 
of shame) curled and crackled around her; and the 
innocent soul of the martyred Joan of Arc, ascended 
to that Searcher of hearts whose will she had accom¬ 
plished, and whose child she was! Go, pure inno¬ 
cent being! Return to Him who whispered to thy 
young spirit, and sent his angel voices to direct thee! 
Thy mission is ended ; thy meteor sword flashed ter¬ 
ror on the foes of France, but never was stained with 
blood! Thy oriflamme has led armies to victory, but 
J tis not allowed to adorn thy coffin. The heart which 
throbbed but for thy country’s good is reduced to 
ashes. But all France shall unite in rescuing thy 
name from the foul blot of heretic, apostate, and 
sorceress! 

So in fact she has! I need but quote the words 
of Lingard (for many reasons not to be suspected of 
partiality in favor of Joan of Arc) to show this. In 


BOURGTHEROLDE. 


65 


his history of England (Paris edition, 1840), vol. III., 
in a note to chapter IV., page 176, he says :—“ Twen¬ 
ty-five years later this judgment was reversed by the 
Archbishop of Pheims, and the Bishop of Paris, 
whom Pope Calixtus had appointed to reverse it at 
the solicitation of her mother, Isabella.” Honorable 
is the testimony borne to her memory, and worthy of 
the subject is the noble statue recently erected to her 
memory by the people of France, at Orleans, the seene 
of her noblest exploits. On an angle of the “ Place de 
la Pucelle ” stands the ancient hotel or public hall 
“ Bourgtherolde,” built in the fifteenth century, and 
famous for its antiquities and quaint historic bassre- 
liefs. It is a venerable looking and irregular pile of 
building, commenced by William le Poux, a noble¬ 
man of Bourgtherolde, in 1486, and finished by his 
son and successor of the same name, in the beginning 
of the sixteenth century. The approach to the in¬ 
ner court is guarded by a high and massive gate, 
which seems of the days of Noah. I entered by a 
smaller one ; and the only challenge heard, was the 
hoarse barking of a dog, which might have been, if 
not the a last of the Mohicans,” at least the last sur¬ 
vivor of his antediluvian race! 

The building is now used, I believe, as a bank, 
and for other public purposes; although, if this be the 
principal entrance, there must be a beggarly account, 
indeed, of empty coffers. The wall of the principal 
story or piazza is adorned with a series of bas-reliefs 
more or less damaged by time and accident, yet ex¬ 
quisitely beautiful. Indeed, I would call them “high 
relief,” or alto-relievo, for they are almost statues. 


66 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


They are divided principally into six departments or 
panels, representing war scenes—the famous “ Field 
of the Golden Cloth,” the interview between Francis 
I. of France, and Henry VIII. of England; while 
others are pastoral subjects. Over each panel is a 
slab explaining the subject below. I had copied 
them, but my notes have become illegible. With 
the exception of some fhw in Rome, I nowhere saw 
such perfect sculptures. The most minute details 
among crowded cavalry, contending armies, proces¬ 
sions of ecclesiastics, and other high dignitaries, are 
elaborated with surprising accuracy. 

I can readily understand the enthusiasm with 
which Montfaucon, Dibdin, and other antiquaries 
have studied these silent memoirs of a by-gone age— 
for, even to me, they possessed a peculiar interest. 

During the afternoon I visited the “ Palais de 
Justice,” built in 1449. It is an immense Gothic 
affair; and, as it occupied the remainder of that day, 
I will decipher my notes taken while wandering 
through its halls; reserving for the following, my visit 
to the Cathedral, &c. Standing in the hollow square, 
formed by three sides of this immense pile, the sight is 
beautiful. The height of the building, the numerous 
pointed spires, the lofty towers, the marble steps, the 
ornamental window sashes, frames, and niches, the 
immense arches, by which carriages and foot passen¬ 
gers enter from the streets; the strange unearthly 
griffins or frightful monsters (no two of them alike), 
which, here as well as every where abroad, I saw pro¬ 
jecting from the top of the walls as necessary appen¬ 
dages to Gothic architecture, water-spouts I suppose; 


PALAIS DE JUSTICE. 


67 


the long black-gowned baristers, I suppose I must 
call them, or counsellers, with their three-cornered 
hats, passing * from side to side; and the firm, mea¬ 
sured tread of the “ soldiers on guard ”—all struck 
me with admiration. The Hall of Representatives 
forms an important part of this immense pile. It oc¬ 
cupies one of the three sides of the hollow square, 
and is nearly 200 feet in length. It is truly a bold 
attempt at a self-supporting dome and roof, no col¬ 
umn or pillar breaking the view of the interior. The 
immense hall has but a few empty niches, being 
strangely unadorned—perhaps the more striking from 
this fact. At one extremity is placed a colossal statue 
in plaster of the poet Corneille, and at the other I 
noticed the simple tomb of Claude Groulart, the first 
president of the Parliament of Hormandy. Under 
this first floor are the dungeons inhabited by the 
wretched victims of the law. I cannot describe my 
feelings as I trod the “ floor of death,” as it is called, 
from the fact of the poor condemned criminals being 
accustomed to walk up and down this hall ere they 
enter the Court-room to receive sentence of death. 
The “Palais” of Justice, strictly speaking, begins at 
the northern extremity of the “Salle des Procureurs.” 
It is a gorgeous building, ornamented with all that is 
striking in the Gothic architecture of the twelfth cen¬ 
tury. Pound and square pillars, loaded with statues, 
niches, and emblems, and terminating in pointed 
spires; an octagonal tower; balustrades running 
the entire length of the building; the leaden railing 
which surmounts the roof; the countless niches, orna¬ 
ments, and queer-looking devices, by which the en- 


68 


MY TEIP TO FKANCE. 


tire facade is enriched, make the exterior of this 
building unique in its appearance. It would he dif¬ 
ficult to imagine a more splendid hall than that in 
which the Court of Assizes holds its sessions. The 
ceiling is of ancient oak, looking like ebony from 
age, and is divided into richly ornamented sunken 
coffers, or panels with rosettes, and other ornaments. 
With the exception of a large painting, the Crucifix¬ 
ion of our Saviour, suspended over the Judge’s seat, 
there are but few ornaments. Here and there is seen 
a slab on which is engraved some extract from the 
civil and criminal codes. It is a venerable hall, the 
scene of many exciting debates of the Parliament 
of ancient Hormandy. Statues of Louis XH., of 
Anne, of Cardinal Dubois, of Justice, of a laboring 
man, of a villager, a lady, a citizen, a monk, and of 
an artist, adorn the southern facade. The entire edi¬ 
fice is undergoing repairs; as, indeed, are most of the 
public buildings of France. Hapoleon possesses the 
true secret of success ; work for the masses, and a 
living for all. The “ Concierge,” who conducts visi¬ 
tors through the various apartments of the u Palais,” 
was well versed in its history, and, by the way, pos¬ 
sesses the knack of getting a good round fee from his 
patrons by simply and politely leaving it to the “ very 
good pleasure of Monsieur.” Evening was gather¬ 
ing as I returned to the “ Hotel de Paris,” where I 
found the proprietor all smiles and attention. He 
spoke English admirably; and thus chatting and re¬ 
freshing the inner man with divers comforts, an hour 
or so stole away, and I was conducted to my room. 


CHAPTER IX. 


A market-house scene—Square before the Cathedral—Cathedral of Rouen 
—Butter tower—Interior of Cathedral—Richard Cceur de Lion—Rollo 
Duke of Normandy—William of the Long Sword—Unknown tomb— 
Reflections on leaving the Cathedral—Archbishop’s palace—How to 
wind up a watch without breaking it—Tour de la grosse Horloge—Le¬ 
gend of the bell—Ringing the curfew—View of city from the tower— 
Church of St. Goddard—St. Patrick’s Church—A gentle hint to the 
Curd. 

E ARLY the following morning, I sallied forth to 
seek the Cathedral. Passing on my way a mar¬ 
ket-house, a very bedlam of tongues, sounds, sights, 
and things; old women and young, feeble old men, 
and little donkeys, I assure you, reader, no larger 
than many good-sized dogs I have seen in America, 
harnessed to carts, with low wheels to be sure, yet 
holding as much as some I have seen elsewhere for 
horses ; some tied with ropes by the head, and tail, 
and body—others with their big, ugly heads, forming 
nearly half their whole size, thrust through a hole in 
a blanket, and thus attached to the go-cart, or vehicle 
behind them; and all looking as sober, serious, and 
philosophical, as some of their asinine, two-legged 
drivers; din and confusion, screeches and sounds, to 


70 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


me like the gabbling of geese; cabbages and squashes 
in young mountains ; cackling poultry, squeaking pigs, 
bleating sheep, lowing cows, and braying asses;— 
well, it was alfecting—very, to the ears, and olfacto¬ 
ries ! How on earth the dashing carts, and headlong 
porters, the milk-wagons and drays could go ahead 
as rapidly as they did, without demolishing piles of 
eatables, and scores of legs, I know not. Certain it 
is, I had difficulty in escaping this bedlam let loose. 
How, thought I, the danger is over, and I’ll have 
time to collect my thoughts before reaching the 
church; when, lo, here I am in the spacious square 
before the cathedral, almost as noisy as the “ Marche 
Heuf ” ! This time, however, the scene is a little more 
bearable; for it is a market of plants, flowers, and 
young trees. And here is the Cathedral! vast, im¬ 
mense, grand! The silent chronicler of nearly six¬ 
teen hundred years; from the days of St. Melanius, 
260, to those of Pio Hono ; pillaged in 841, and al¬ 
most razed to the ground, by fire and sword, at dif¬ 
ferent epochs; yet Phoenix-like ever rising from its 
ruins; the church in which Hollo was baptized in 
912 ; improved by Richard I; again almost reduced 
to ashes in 1200, and reconstructed by John “ Sans 
Terre”; the work of centuries, and the admiration 
of countless generations ! How like a dream ; and 
how strange the sensations which arise, as I gaze upon 
the lofty spires, the centre one of which is now 400 feet 
high ; receding, low, and elaborately sculptured door¬ 
ways, its columns, and pointed bold architecture ! The 
main building is 450 feet long. The two towers which 
stand at the side of the building in a line with the front, 


THE CATHEDRAL. 


71 


give an appearance of grandeur to the facade, which 
is ornamented with numerous statues. The north 
tower, called St. Romanus’s, whatever others may say 
of it, lofty as it is, seems to me injured in appearance 
by the strange-looking spire, surmounting it; but the 
southern, or as it is called, the “ Butter Tower,” is a 
perfect beauty, surmounted high in the air by an oc¬ 
tagonal, at once rich and grand. It derives its appel¬ 
lation, “ Butter Tower,” from the fact that it was 
mainly erected by a tax levied on that article of 
food during successive Lenten seasons! 

The interior is brilliant. The light is admitted by 
one hundred and thirty stained glass windows; many 
of which are to me, unaccustomed as I am to any 
thing of the kind, exquisitely beautiful. Among those 
which struck me most forcibly are, on the left on en¬ 
tering, those representing the life of “ Joseph, son of 
Jacob.” Between the chapel of the blessed Virgin, 
and a little semicircular oratory are two windows, one 
the Passion of our Lord, the other some saint, whose 
name I foiget; then the martyrdom of St. Laurence. 
These splendid “ vitraux ” or stained-glass windows 
are of the thirteenth century. I will not enumerate 
the representation of St. Thomas, St. Romanus, 
Christ appearing to Mary Magdalene, and numberless 
others. I was bewildered, and could scarce realize 
that the almost countless little pieces of glass that I 
gazed on could produce so surprising an effect: and 
as the morning sun entered through these stained 
windows, I was reminded of a striking comparison 
once made by Archbishop Hughes, when he compared 
the different impressions made on the mind, by the 


72 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


same truths seen through different teaching, to the 
varied colors reflected by the stained window on the 
floor of some ancient cathedral. Nothing could be 
made more expressive. The building is in the form 
of a Latin cross, at each extremity of the cross sec¬ 
tion, is a large rosette stained window; and a similar 
one over the principal entrance. The organ is an im¬ 
mense affair made by Lefevre in 1760. It is unneces¬ 
sary to dwell on the choir or sanctuary, on the jube 
or arch thrown over its entrance, and from which the 
epistles, gospels, and lessons are sung or read to the 
people—an odd-looking contrivance to a Yankee tra¬ 
veller ; but in keeping with the style of architecture, 
most common throughout France. It would be almost 
impossible for us in America to form a correct idea of 
this arrangement. I hope sincerely it may never be in¬ 
troduced into our church edifices. Fourteen grand 
columns surround the sanctuary. On the right of the 
main altar is another, under the patronage of the 
mother of God, called “ the Altar of the Vow,” from 
the fulfilment of a vow in 1637, when to obtain from 
Heaven the cessation of the plague, which was deso¬ 
lating the city, the public authorities in solemn 
procession deposited a silver lamp before the altar. 
God heard the prayer of faith, and through the inter¬ 
cession of the Virgin Mother, the pestilence ceased. 
Opposite stands a lovely statue of St. Cecilia, patron¬ 
ess of music. Around the spacious edifice are twenty- 
five side chapels, and, strange enough, the old parish 
church of St. Stephen, formerly the church of this 
quarter, forms now the first side chapel on the right 
on entering. What associations are connected with 


EOLLo’s TOMB. 


73 


this ancient chapel. The remains of Rollo, the first 
Duke of Normandy are deposited in the chapel of St. 
Romanus. On a black marble slab over the tomb 
are these words : Here lies Hollo , the first duhe, the 
founder and father of Normandy , of which he was 
at first the scourge , the terror , and then the restorer. 
Baptized by Francon , Archbishop of Rouen in 912; 
he died in 917. Ilis remains were at first deposited 
in the old sanctuary , which is now the extremity of 
the nave. The altar being removed , the earthly ashes 
of the prince were deposited in this spot by the blessed 
Maurille , Archbishop of Rouen, in 1063. In the same 
aisle and immediately opposite is the tomb of William 
of the Long Sword, son and successor of Rollo. A 
slab, similar to that over his father’s tomb informs 
us that the slumberer beneath was betrayed and mur¬ 
dered in 914 ; that his remains, at first, were deposited 
near his father’s : but, like his, subsequently removed 
to their present resting-place in 1063. Full-length 
figures in armor and shield repose upon their tombs. 
During some excavations under the old floor of 
this Cathedral in 1838, some interesting monuments 
were brought to light ; among them a statue, and a 
leaden box enclosing a silver one, containing the 
heart of “ Richard Coeur de Lion.” It was but two 
feet beneath the surface. He died in 1199—this 
statue is in a remarkable state of preservation, not¬ 
withstanding its long inhumation ; it is nearly seven 
feet long, and is temporarily placed in a chapel on the 
left of the choir or sanctuary. Richard is represent¬ 
ed in death with his feet resting on a sleeping lion. 
How, as one passes this silent, yet almost breathing 
* 4 


74 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


statue, or looks upon tlie base in the sacristy now en¬ 
closing the heart of the fearless Richard, the mind 
wanders back to the walls of Acre, and to the 
bloody fields, where the fierce Saladin and his Sara¬ 
cen hosts met, in deadly conflict, this lion-hearted 
leader of the Christians, as the cross and the cres¬ 
cent waved above their ranks! Here lies the fearless 
chieftain; the Christian warrior; there reposes his 
heart: its wild throbbings are ceased; its emotions 
stilled. “ Ho sound shall awake them,” till the last 
trumpet sounds ! It is much to be regretted that the 
tombs of “ Henry the Young,” brother to “Richard,” 
William, the uncle of both, and of John, Duke of 
Bedford, regent of France under Henry Y., King of 
England, who died in 1435, have been levelled by 
the indiscreet zeal of the canons of this Cathedral in 
1736 ; for, as Liequet informs us, previous to that time 
these four interesting monuments were within the 
sanctuary. We pass by the tombs of “Pierre de 
Breze,” killed at the battle of Mont l’Heri in 1465 ; of 
Louis, grandson of Pierre, whose lifeless form is rep¬ 
resented at the moment of death ; and we stop for a 
moment before the tomb of the two Cardinals di’ 
Amboise, uncle and nephew. The tomb of black 
marble is surmounted by the kneeling statues of the 
two Cardinals in an attitude of prayer; hands joined 
and eyes looking to heaven. Lovely little statues, rep¬ 
resenting the seven fruits of ‘ the Holy Spirit, surround 
the base of the tomb. These statues are of white 
marble. The expression of the countenance of the 
uncle is heavenly. At the foot of this tomb Cardinal 
Cambaceres, who died at Rouen in 1818, lies buried. 


ARCHBISHOP MAURICE. 


75 


Over tlie altar of this chapel dedicated to the B. 
Virgin, is a painting said to be a masterpiece of 
Philip de Champagne, representing the adoration of 
the Shepherds : I must confess however I was unable 
to appreciate its beauties. As a parting glance at 
the numerous statues, tombs, and sepulchre slabs, 
which line the side aisles, walls, and floor of this Ca¬ 
thedral, let us pause before this one we are passing 
on the right as we leave the chapel of the B. Virgin. 
We see the figure of a Bishop stretched out in death 
under an arch in the wall. ISTo name explains it; 
no clue to discover whose ashes there repose. Some 
mutilated bas-reliefs would induce us to think that a 
synod w r as represented; another represents angels 
conducting, as is believed, a soul to heaven under the 
form of an infant. Whose is it? Nameless and un¬ 
known the slumberer reposes, till the archangel’s 
trump shall call him forth to j udgment. As a mat¬ 
ter of curiosity I will briefly relate what our guide, in 
his own peculiar, round-about way, gave us the his¬ 
tory of this tomb. lie informed us that in 1235, 
Maurice, Archbishop of Kouen, in a sudden move¬ 
ment of anger killed his servant-man with the cover 
of a kettle. On his death-bed, being deeply penitent 
for his crime, he considered himself unworthy to be 
buried within the sacred precincts of the Cathedral; 
and yet expressly forbade his executors to inter him 
beyond the walls. In this dilemma they buried him 
in this arch; thus being neither entirely within nor 
without the consecrated walls. Be this as it may, he 
believed it; and as it costs nothing to agree with him, 
I admit his story—until farther notice ! 


76 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


We have tarried long within these hallowed walls : 
yet how feeble and imperfect our attempt at descrip¬ 
tion ! The mind expands; the ideas become enlarged; 
and though never before a lover of gothic architec¬ 
ture, it was because never before had I seen so noble 
a specimen of human skill. The countless columns 
rising up, and upwards; until they were lost in the 
gloom of overhanging, pointed arches—the long aisles 
lighted by the mellow rays of a morning sun, reflected 
through stained windows; the airy open work, yet 
massive stone stairway, in the old Flamboyant style, 
leading from the west corner of St. Fomanu’s tower 
to the library above; statues of saintly heroes and 
helmeted knights in every niche and on every tomb ; 
the kneeling crowds around each shrine and altar; 
the vested priests all robed for mass, and the sweet 
music which floated on the air from some choir or 
chapel I could not see—how fruitless the attempt to 
stamp on paper the soul’s emotions ! For us in Amer¬ 
ica, there is no ancient history of our country. Its 
remotest period, as far as we are concerned, reaches 
scarce beyond our grandfathers’ memories: but as the 
American traveller stands at the front door of the Ca¬ 
thedral of Kouen ; as he sees and touches and almost 
hears the monuments around him telling of long cen- 
turies past; of changes in the outer world while they 
have remained, silent chroniclers of ages long before 
the daring Columbus crossed the waters, or Americus 
Vespucius gave his name to the Western World, he 
understands better the veneration with which the 
holy Catholic Church looks upon and cherishes her 
ancient monuments; he lives in the past; and seems 


AKCHIEPISCOPAL PALACE. 


77 


to breathe an atmosphere at once sacred, saddening, 
yet salutary; he takes in almost at a glance the glo¬ 
rious past of Catholic architecture; and spans the 
distance which, to the eye of genius, unites the 
“ dark” to the present enlightened age! 

Adjoining the Cathedral is the Archiepiscopal 
palace, an extensive and imposing building. It was 
commenced and partially completed by Cardinal 
Estouteville in 1461, and is remarkable as having 
served at various epochs as a garrison for soldiers; 
as the “ head-quarters ” of rival chieftains; as the rest¬ 
ing place of Louis XII. when in 1508 he visited 
Rouen with his Queen; and as the temporary resi¬ 
dence of the Dauphin “Francis de Yalois,” in 1531. 
At present it is the residence of the Archbishop, and 
is the depository of many rare manuscripts in the 
library of the Chapter of the Cathedral. The exte¬ 
rior reminded me more of a fortified castle than a 
dwelling-house. The walls in front are very high, and 
I remember with peculiar pleasure the attention of a 
venerable old dame, or “ concierge,” whose lodge at 
the gate, far removed from the main building, re¬ 
minded me of a book store, curiosity shop, and 
Noah’s Ark combined. At the gate a sentry stands 
guard—a right noble-looking fellow he was too. It 
is surprising, however, that the city or ecclesiastical 
authorities have allowed so many buildings to be 
erected, even against the walls of the Cathedral! In 
fact, they almost surround the edifice. Even between 
the buttresses or columns there are dwellings, three 
stories high, though surely not more than five feet 
deep ; fruit stalls, fish stalls, shops of various inechan- 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


78 

ical brandies, and even “ Cafes.” The walls of the 
Cathedral are literally blackened with the smoke 
from stove-pipes and chimneys ! It is well there is 
nothing combustible used in the building. 

From the Cathedral I wandered listlessly through 
“la grande Rue,” musing on I know not what— 
completely bewildered by what I had seen, when an 
agreeable episode changed the current of my thoughts 
and feelings. So true it is we are the creatures of 
circumstance ! An unfortunate twist in winding my 
watch had broken the key, and I stopped at a watch¬ 
maker’s to get another. While there a good-looking, 
jolly soul entered, with face all beaming with—heat 
I suppose, albeit ’twas blustry and cold. I must not 
in charity suppose that any thing but good health and 
exercise tended to rouge thus his jolly fat face, yet 
there were divers bumps and excrescences on and 
about his nose for which we, in America, have a very 
expressive term. With a good-natured “Bon jour, 
Monsieur l’Orlogier,” he brought forth from the 
depths profound of his old Norman breeches watch 
fob a regular “ Bull’s Eye,” one of your old-fashioned 
English watches ; like the half of a potato; and in¬ 
sisted, in rather stammering French, that every time 
he wound it up he broke it. Indeed, shrugged our 
little watchmaker, indeed, and looking most quizzi¬ 
cally at his customer, he asked when he wound up his 
watch every day ? “ After dinner,” was the reply. 

“ Ah, tres bien, monsieur, tres bien—now when I mend 
it this time, do you wind up your watch every morning 
and you won’t break it.” “ Mercie, Monsieur, 
Mercie,” replied he of the goodly corporation, and 


TOUR DE LA GROSSE HORLOGE. 


79 


red nose; and walked out quite impressed with his 
new lesson ! So, thought I, with more than winding 
up a watch under excitement, we often do, and do 
badly, what, in the cool morning of reflection, might 
be done well. After a hearty dinner, and refreshing 
rest of half an hour I rambled, “guide-book ” in hand, 
to the “ Tour de la Grosse Horloge.” This is an an¬ 
cient Gothic belfry or tower, containing the huge bell 
which, every night from 9 until 9|, sounds the curfew 
over Rouen. The lower story is occupied by an old 
gentleman, who, with his sons, (noble fellows,) carries 
on watchmaking. Over the door of this tower, which 
extends across the street, having an arch under it for 
wagons and passengers, is a brass plate, informing us 
in quaint letters and style, that in 1323 a certain right 
worthy Vm. Gues, Chevalier and Chamberlain to 
his Majesty the King, was captain of this honorable 
city, &c., &c., and so on ! By a flight of two hundred 
steps we ascend to the summit of this lofty spire, 
meeting in our way divers offsets and turn-outs, from 
which obtrudes, now and then, the head of some 
member of the family, perched thus high in air like 
eagles, or rather let me say owls, in these dark and 
winding stairways. At the landing-place is seen the 
immense frame which supports the “ Grosse Horloge.” 
Why it is called the “ silver bell,” is a mystery; for 
the old custode confirmed what my “guide-book” 
said, there is not a particle of silver in it. There is a 
legend connected with this ancient bell, which runs 
thus : A nobleman of the city was under sentence of 
death. In vain had his wife implored his pardon, 
from “ Sire the King.” He resolutely refused : and 


80 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


in a moment of petulance, as if to confirm his asser¬ 
tion, declared that he never would pardon the offender 
until he heard in Paris the bell of Rouen. The ever 
wakeful ingenuity of woman was ready. With true 
Roman fortitude, and love that conquers every diffi¬ 
culty, she at once made arrangements for casting this 
immense Bourdon, and, being in correspondence with 
some of the courtiers, it was arranged that on a cer¬ 
tain occasion, when the king was enjoying the chase, 
this huge bell should be rung. The king heard the 
strange sound, and demanded whence it came ? He 
was told it was the bell of Rouen, was reminded of 
his promise, and graciously pardoned the criminal. 

Such is the legend. “ I tell the tale as it was told 
to me.” How, however, that I am out of the old 
gentleman’s sight, I may venture to express a doubt, 
whether he has not mixed up a fact connected with 
the famous Cathedral bell, called “ La Cloche de 
George d’Ambois,” which was cracked while ringing 
during the visit of Louis XYI. to Rouen, in 1786, 
and which was subsequently melted down in 1793, 
and moulded into cannons. This bell is rung only 
for the curfew, a custom established in England by 
William the Conqueror, and on occasions of public 
rejoicings, and calamities. On the night of the 23d 
November I was present, and assisted in ringing this 
ancient warning, the remnant of days of anarchy and 
confusion, the curfew. How often in childish days 
had I strutted on the mimic stage, declaiming the 
old familiar words:— 

“The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,” 
without ever thinking that, on the spot where, from 


THE BELL OF ROUEN. 


81 


its origin, it lias been continued for so many hundred 
years, without one single omission, I should one day 
help to send it booming o’er the city! The belfry 
literally trembles with the reverberation. The good 
old custode, now more than eighty years, seldom ab¬ 
sents himself from the ringing to which his two sons 
attend. ITe had kindly taken the precaution to pro¬ 
vide raw cotton for my special use, fearing I would 
be deafened by the noise. 

It was almost needless; for had it been the roar¬ 
ing of a thousand more I think I would have tried 
to brave them all, so excited were my feelings. I 
know not how to describe the “ modus operandi.” 
The bell is not rung by a wheel, but by a board, about 
six feet long, firmly attached horizontally to the arms 
upon which it swings. The operators stand on a plat¬ 
form above the bell, and set in motion by each one’s 
treading forcibly on his end of the cross piece, while he 
holds firmly by the railing around. Gradually the huge 
monster swings heavily from side to side: the opera¬ 
tors are carried up and down at opposite extremities 
of the board ; and the thousand-pound tongue speaks 
out in thundering notes. How I trembled ; nay, even 
gasped for breath, as up and down I rode, see-saw 
fashion, deafened by the roar, fearful of a fall which 
must prove fatal, and—ringing the curfew! 

To get off my plank was, to me, impossible; so 
up and down I went for nearly a quarter of an hour, 
which, to me, seemed a century; and right glad was 
I when the monster stopped, enabling me to step 
from my perilous position to the comparative security 
of the rickety scaffolding around the belfry. It was 
4 * 


82 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


paying dear for ray whistle ; but then it was such a 
glorious whistle ! 

Descending a few steps, a side-door leads to the 
clock-tower. Like the bell, this same old clock has 
witnessed the storms and sunshine of nearly 500 years ! 

It strikes the hours regularly, and is now, as it has al¬ 
ways been, the “ Town Clock.” A parapet or plat¬ 
form surrounds this belfry on the exterior, from which 
a view of the entire city may be had. It is beauti¬ 
ful ; the tile-covered and pointed roofs ; the quaint 
style of buildings; the surrounding country; and 
then, the association of ideas; the ages that have rolled 
by since the strong arm of man first raised these 
towers. The anxious hours passed here by warrior 
chiefs; as from this watchtower they marked the 
enemy’s approach, and the signal horn was sounded, 
or the bell tolled forth its warning, or its joy. The 
countless eyes which have gazed on these very scenes 
on which I gaze, but now closed in death—there is 
something in all this well calculated to call up salu¬ 
tary thoughts. The stone arch which crosses the 
street, and which was constructed in 1527, is termi¬ 
nated by medallions or squares ; supporting a shep¬ 
herd surrounded by his flock. On one we read, 

“ The good shepherd giveth his life for his sheepf - 
and on the other a fountain sends forth its refreshing 
streams, surmounted by “bas-reliefs,” representing 
the fable of Alpheus and Arethusa. The good old 
custode seemed mightily tickled at the attention paid 
him; and I left him edified at his simplicity, piety, 
and honesty. In a bend of “ La Eue 1’ Ecureille ” 
stands the Church of St. Godard. It was undergoing 

O O 


st. Patrick’s 


83 


repairs. This Church was built in the sixteenth cen¬ 
tury ; and is noted principally for two remarkable 
vitraux, or stained glass windows among many others. 
One on the right, on entering the choir, represents the 
pedigree of the B. Virgin from the kings of Juda. 
The head and countenance of the Virgin Daughter of 
Sion is assuredly the sweetest production of the kind 
human eye can rest on. The second one represents 
different traits in the history of St. Nicholas. These 
windows are upwards of thirty-one feet high. To me 
the building wore the appearance of a dumpy, 
gloomy, and square concern. 

Among the most interesting churches in Rouen, 
if we consider it merely on the score of art, is the 
old Gothic Church of St. Patrick, built 1535. It is 
a perfect gem of architecture and stained windows. 
Indeed, a goodly portion of the Chapel at the left ex¬ 
tremity towards the east, is glass, which, like most of 
the other splendid windows of this Church, date from 
the sixteenth century, the golden age of this species of 
art in France. Among the most striking stained glass 
windows in this Church, I will enumerate those rep¬ 
resenting the “ woman taken in adultery ; ” the an¬ 
nunciation ; and some among the principal traits in 
the life of St. Eustaclie. In another series, are repre¬ 
sented the Apostle of Ireland, and patron of this 
Church; one of which I remember, where the holy 
Bishop receives the confession of an unfortunate be¬ 
ing, who had stolen a neighbor’s sheep ! My recol¬ 
lections of the Cure of St. Patrick are not the most 
agreeable. In the holy name of stranger I presented 
myself, not to ask personal favors, but to get per- 


84 


MY TJRIP TO FEANCE. 


mission to visit the Church, &c. One of the assist¬ 
ants received me kindly; I cannot remember that the 
Care did so. There are moments when a word kind¬ 
ly spoken may cheer a drooping heart: when a re¬ 
ception harsh or even formal, will chill. The former 
is as cheap as the latter, and brings a much better in¬ 
terest ! It is well to support one’s dignity ; but dig¬ 
nity is sometimes manifested by condescension, and 
it is always well to mingle a good quantity of oil with 
our vinegar. 


CHAPTER X. 


Church of St. Romanus—Procession and legend of “ La Fierte ”—Trait in 
life of Patron Saint—L’Hotel Dieu—Church of La Madeleine—Trait of 
Father Deluol—Walk along the “Quay du Havre”—Douane or cus¬ 
tom-house—La Eourse or Exchange—House of Louis Brune—Suspen¬ 
sion bridge—Place and garrison St. Sever—Church of Emm—Loss and 
gain—Brothers of Christian schools—St. You Asylum and Church— 
Garrison of Bonnes Nouvelles—Statue of the Poet Corneille—Anecdote 
of hot soup—Novel method of sawing wood. 


ONTINUTHG our walk to the corner of “ La Rue 



de la Rochefoucault ” and “ Champ des Oiseaux,” 
we come to the parish Church of St. Romanus. I find 
on the margin of my “ guide book ” this rather un¬ 
favorable entry, as it struck me at the moment: 
“ Gloomy, dark, rusty, large ; and, to me, £ a la mode 
market house ! ’ ” Exteriorly it is indeed all this; but 
the interior is adorned with numerous side chapels, 
each possessing objects of interest. Over the main 
door on the exterior are these words in large gold 
letters, “ Sancto Romano Patrocinante.” The edi¬ 
fice was built in 1680. On entering the church I was 
struck with admiration at the main altar, which 
stands in the centre of the choir. It is the marble 


86 


, MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


tomb of the Patron Saint Archbishop Romanus, and 
is an exquisite piece of workmanship. The stained 
windows in the church are also beautiful. Among 
them I noticed particularly the Transfiguration; an¬ 
other, divided into six parts, evidently the history of 
Adam; a St. Genevieve Patroness of Paris, the Mar¬ 
tyrdom of St. Stephen, the Resurrection of Lazarus, 
and a singular affair—Dives at his sumptous table, and 
Lazarus at the gate without. There is something bold 
in these two last; but they made any thing but pleas¬ 
ing impressions on my mind. Around the church are 
many pretty bas-reliefs in marble, and carvings in 
wood; some ancient frescoes; and a few tolerably 
good statues—one of St. Louis, a pretty little marble 
statuette. The dome, which rises over the extremity 
of the nave, is ornamented with five large frescoes, 
representing various traits in the life of St. Romanus ; 
his consecration as Bishop of Rouen in 626; the 
Saint overthrowing the statues of Yenus, Mercury, 
Jupiter, and Apollo; the miracle of the dragon, or 
“ Gorgonille,” as it is called ; a procession called in 
ancient annals “ la Fierte,” for the releasing of a 
prisoner from sentence of death; and finally the 
Apotheosis of the Saint. Of these frescoes it is not 
my intention to speak. As, however, I have never 
met in any book of travels with a history of this an¬ 
cient procession, I may be excused for introducing 
here a brief notice of it. These pages will fall into 
the hands mostly of Catholics, for whom they are 
principally written. They will appreciate these and 
similar traits. Others, who may chance to read them, 
may smile at such credulity; mayhap turn such 


ST. ROMANUS. 


87 


things into ridicule. Be it so. It is, however, a rule 
in criticism to understand before condemning, and to 
admit or reject facts, according to the credibility of the 
testimony advanced. Passing over the various traditions 
since the days of St. Bomanus, nearly nine hundred 
years ago, I prefer to combine the notes of Butler, in 
“ Lives of the Saints,” article St. Bomanus, Oct. 23, 
with what the aged Cure of the church seated be¬ 
neath the dome related, as the history of this proces¬ 
sion. From early days the Metropolitan Chapter of 
Bouen enjoyed special privileges and immunities, 
which were secured to them for ages by the French 
Kings, and by the Dukes of Kormandy. Among 
these privileges was the releasing once a year, on the 
feast of the Ascension, a prisoner from death; and 
the celebrating of Pligli Mass on that occasion, after 
the procession, in which the relics of the Saint are 
carried by the ransomed man, even though it be in 
the evening. In the fresco above us the Saint is rep- 
sented slaying a huge dragon or gorgonille, which 
had destroyed many persons. This, as some will have 
it, was done by the aid of a criminal thus delivered. 
It is most probably, however, a symbol of the devil, 
overcome by the soldier of Christ. How this privi¬ 
lege originated is uncertain. But it is more than 
probable that it was granted in acknowledgment of a 
fact related in his life—where the holy Archbishop, 
being absent from Bouen at the Court of King Dago- 
bert on affairs concerning his church, heard the sad 
intelligence of the overflowing of the Seine, by which 
much suffering was brought upon his flock. Instant¬ 
ly he returned to share their fate ; and knowing that 


88 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


liis Divine Master had promised to grant wlien asked, 
lie knelt, crucifix in hand, with his afflicted people, 
and called on God to stay the angry waves. The 
same voice which had soothed the troubled waters of 
Genesareth’s lake, by its almighty “ peace, be still,” 
breathed over the angry waters of the Seine; and 
they retired to their channels, conquered by the 
prayer of faith ! But let us proceed on our tour 
through the city. Retracing our steps to the Boule¬ 
vard or public walk of Bouvrenil, we turn down the 
square, (albeit ’tis a circle,) Cauchoise, till, as we 
pass the street of Crosine, our attention is attracted 
by a grand and imposing edifice. Referring to our 
guide-book, we find it is “PITotel Dieu.” Let us 
take a rapid walk through its various wards, and 
drop in for a moment to see the beautiful Church 
“ La Madeleine ” attached to this establishment. 
There are seventeen large halls or wards, containing 
rather more than six hundred beds. It is intended 
only for the sick of the city, barring sudden emer¬ 
gencies. 

The nurses or waiting sisters were like angels 
of mercy, noiselessly moving around with words of 
comfort and sweet hope on their lips, and tears and 
smiles blending in their eyes, as they wept over the 
sufferings, and shared in the joy at returning health 
of their sick charge. From one of them I learned 
that this hospital receives only acute diseases or such 
chronic cases as are supposed curable. They are 
here kept six months; at the end of which time, if un¬ 
cured they are dismissed, or removed to a “ general 
Hospital.”’ She informed me that the average num- 


THE HOTEL DIEU. 


89 


ber of patients tlms admitted annually was four thou¬ 
sand, without counting annually six hundred military, 
officers and soldiers ! The most admirable order reigns 
throughout the building. Separate wards are appro¬ 
priated for surgical cases, female patients, and conta¬ 
gions diseases. It is a free hospital; and surely must 
bring God’s blessing on the city. On the south side 
of the long row of buildings is the church attached to 
the hospital. The fagade is composed of a peristyle, 
supported by four beautiful Corinthian columns. In 
the fronton or tympanum is Charity, symbolized by 
a bas-relief of a woman with a child in her arms—• 
suitable emblem for such a church. The interior is 
simple, wearing an air of silent retirement and piety. 
There are several paintings adorning the side chapels, 
from the pencil of “ Yincent,” an artist much esteem¬ 
ed in France. I was particularly struck by that rep¬ 
resenting our Lord restoring sight to the blind man. 
In the rear of the main altar, which stands out in the 
centre of the sanctuary, is the private chapel of the 
“ Keligieuses ” sisters of “ Hotel Dieu.” There were 
several of them at their devotions, and as I involunta¬ 
rily bent my knee, a crowd of recollections came over 
me. I thought of the good sisters in my own loved 
land ; and realized then more forcibly than ever the 
truth of that noble reply given by Father Deluol in 
1832 or 3, to the directors of the Maryland Hospital 
in Baltimore, when the Sisters of Charity were about 
to take possession of the house, and were selecting one 
of the parlors for a chapel. “Gentlemen,” said the 
man of God, “ you all admire the courage, and de¬ 
votedness of these good Sisters. You have often ex- 


90 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


pressed your wonder to me. Do you know where 
they imbibe their spirit? Do you know where they 
grow so strong, so humble, and yet so fearless ? At 
the foot of the altar, gentlemen—at the foot of this 
altar! Take that away and you will have no Sisters 
of Charity! Let them give the best room in the 
house to God, and He will give you good Sisters! ” 
Noble words! true words ! The same spirit animates 
the Sisters all over the world. At the foot of God’s 
holy altar they come to drink in fortitude, and grace, 
and strength, for their arduous duties. Blessings on you, 
sweet messengers of Charity! We will continue down 
by the Champ de Foire until we reach the Seine, op¬ 
posite the “ Isle de petit Gue.” Let us turn to the 
left, pass along the “ Quay du Havre,” with its din and 
clatter, its confusion of tongues, varied and motley 
groups of bloused bipeds, and shaggy quadrupeds, 
canine and feline inhabitants ; the chattering magpies, 
frisky monkeys, caged serpents, and ragged rag-pickers. 
After wading through this varied collection of natural 
and unnatural curiosities, surely the residue of 
Noah’s Ark, we reach the “ Douane ” or Custom 
House, a lofty building at the corner of “ les Hues de 
l’Entrepot and St. Eloi.” Its style is of the Florentine 
school. Emblems of commerce surmount the edifice, 
and adorn the front, the entrance, and the halls. In 
appropriate niches on the fagade of the building are 
two life-sized statues in stone, personating the 
geniuses of navigation and of commerce. They are 
the production of the sculptor David. As I could not 
get sufficiently near them to judge of their merits 
even were it otherwise, I must believe, as all who 


david’s statues. 


91 


see them admit, they are masterpieces. Navigation 
is represented under the form of a bold athletic wo¬ 
man, grasping a helm with her left hand, while with 
her right she raises a scroll or sail, I know not which, 
and discovers the world. At her feet is the compass, 
and hehind her an anchor with cable attached. I read 
on the helm (a curiously wrought affair) the names of 
the celebrated navigators, Columbus, Franklin, Gama, 
La Peyrouse, Ross, De Blossvill, and others. Com¬ 
merce is symbolized by a young man of noble mien, 
bearing in his right hand the emblem of commerce, 
and in his left, a pair of scales. At his feet are four 
smaller figures, quaint-looking objects ; one an Asiatic, 
easily recognized by his costume, presenting to Com¬ 
merce his perfumes, and costly tissues or cloths of 
Cashmere ; the next, the dark, swarthy African, recog¬ 
nized by the entire absence of costume, bearing in one 
hand a coffee-plant, and in the other a bow ; a third, 
Europe, under the form of a spruce, tidy fellow, bear¬ 
ing in his hand a book, emblematic of science and intel¬ 
lectual power ; and then comes America, a veritable 
demon in shape of an Indian, flourishing a war-club 
with one hand, and extending his skins and furs with 
the other. I scarce knew whether to laugh or to feel 
indignant at this burlesque, for such it is, though per¬ 
haps not intended. With all deference, I would say, 
that if Monsieur David knew no better, Havre now 
knows better symbols of American commerce than 
a drunken Indian and a fewjur skins! Perhaps, how¬ 
ever, I was rather sensitive ; so, smiling at the doughty 
savage, I proceeded on my way. Proceeding along 
the quay, we soon pass the Post-Office, towards which 


92 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


I turned a wistful look, yet fruitless, I knew. On we 
go along the “ Quay de la Bourse,” until we reach the 
corner of National and Iroquois streets. Facing the 
quay there are long walks and offices of the Bourse or 
Exchange. It is a lovely spot, surrounded by high, 
iron railings; and every morning and evening, nu¬ 
merous mammas and nurses, with their little clierub 
babies, may here be seen taking an airing on the spot 
where, at business hours, “ merchants most do con¬ 
gregate.” Passing by an edifice which, I was told, 
was a theatre, we see on the right of the grand sus¬ 
pension bridge a queer-looking house. It was built 
in honor of Louis Brune, a noble, whole-souled fellow, 
who at various times, regardless of personal danger, 
saved upwards of forty victims from watery graves. 
There is also a hall, appropriated to the reception of 
bodies in a state of asphyxia. We are at the suspen¬ 
sion bridge. Let us cross and pay a flying visit to 
the Faubourg St. Sever, beyond the Seine. It is un¬ 
necessary to describe the bridge. It is, I presume, 
like all other suspension bridges, save that it has a 
draw on a plan entirely new to me. The navigation 
of the river is not at all impeded by it, while it stands 
a proud monument of engineering skill. At the op¬ 
posite end of the bridge is the “ Place St. Sever.” It 
is large, clean, and beautifully adorned with trees. 
On the right stands the Caserne or Garrison St. Sever’s, 
the largest of the three in Bouen. It is nearly in the 
form of a parallelogram, and can accommodate one 
thousand infantry. Save me, thought I, from living 
here ! Such military movements, strict order, break¬ 
neck stiffness of discipline, and beating of drums! 


ST. YOU. 


93 


Passing by an old musty-looking edifice, I tarried 
a few moments at the Church of St. Sever, a poor, 
gloomy, and contracted affair. The old custode or 
sexton bored me with some long yarn about this, 
that, and the other claims this church had to my 
very particular regard, until, in self-defence, I handed 
him his fee and rushed from the door. I was de¬ 
lighted to hear that a new building was soon to be 
erected in lieu of this dingy, prison-looking affair. I 
remember some years ago, before our present postage 
system was established, having advised a poor fellow, 
whose coat and hat were rather seedy, and who ap¬ 
peared capable of doing something with his pen, to 
write to the u Sun ” office in Baltimore, and ask em¬ 
ployment as correspondent. The wag looked at me 
and said, with a fund of humor, “ I have written twice 
already, and all I have gained is the loss of the post¬ 
age ! ” So with me on the occasion of the walk I am 
describing. I had heard much of the “ School of the 
Christian Doctrine,” of “St. You,” and being not 
more than a mile from the spot, I resolved to trudge 
out to see it, fatigued and jaded as I was. I knew 
the Brothers of the holy “la Salle,” who died in 1719, 
had built the asylum and church. 1 had read in my 
own country, that they were the architects, mechanics, 
and laborers, from the first stone in 1728 to the lofty 
cross surmounting the dome ; and that they had been 
subsequently driven from the house by the revolu¬ 
tionary suppression of religious institutions in France; 
that the “Brothers of the Christian Schools,” with 
their helpless charge of orphans, and even several 
poor lunatic children, had been scattered, as sheep 


94 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


whose shepherd is slain; that the noble buildings had 
been successively used as garrisons, prisons, and grana¬ 
ries, military hospitals and poor-houses: yet I was im¬ 
pressed with the idea that all was now straight; and 
that I would here see what I had so often seen at 
old “ Calvert Hall ” in Baltimore, some thousand boys 
drilled by this admirable system of tactics. So on I 
went. What was my surprise at finding “St. You” 
a lunatic asylum for women! In 1820 the general 
council of the city of Rouen decided that St. You was 
the most suitable place for a lunatic asylum for both 
sexes ; and it was accordingly converted to this noble 
use. By degrees it became too small, though addi¬ 
tions were made from time to time, until in 1849 a 
new asylum for males was erected in another portion 
of the city; and this was devoted exclusively to fe¬ 
male patients. So all J gained by my long, lonely 
walk was the loss of my visit! As it was about 5 
o’clock, P. M., I paid but a hurried visit to the Caserne 
or Garrison of “ Bonne Houvelle,” an immense place, 
capable of accommodating six hundred soldiers. Tra¬ 
dition says, it received its name “ Bonne Nouvelle ” 
from Matliilde, wife of William the Conqueror, by 
whom the garrison was founded. She was here when 
the “ good news ” of the victory of Hastings reached 
her. Returning by “la Rue La Fayette,” we find 
ourselves soon in the “ Place ” of the same name, and 
on the “ Pont de Pierre,” a noble structure, or rather 
two noble structures (for there are two), the island La 
Croix intersecting the bridge. In a square tastefully 
ornamented with trees, &c., stands a colossal statue of 
the pride of Rouen, the poet Corneille. It is bronze, 


HOT SOUP. 


95 


was cast in Paris, and stands on a pedestal of white 
Carrara marble. Louis Philippe laid the corner-stone 
in 1833, and it was solemnly inaugurated in 1834. 
On my way to my hotel, all jaded as I was, the ludi¬ 
crous scenes almost perpetually occurring kept me in 
good spirits. Among others I will relate what (with 
very little addition) actually occurred, although some¬ 
thing like it may be familiar to my readers. I entered 
a “ restaurant ” on the Pue de la Madeleine,” not 
far from the “ Mont de Piete,” and called for soup, 
At a small round table, near me, sat three men, hon¬ 
est perhaps, and better than myself, but most villain¬ 
ously ugly, dirty, and lank. By this it will be per¬ 
ceived that I had not been over particular in my 
choice of an eating-house. Ho matter; I was hun¬ 
gry, thirsty, and fatigued ; and surely, in such a case, 
“ any port in a storm ” is admissible. The soup was 
forthcoming, piping-hot. They know how to make 
soup in France, gentle reader. The first attempt I 
made was a failure, for I scalded my mouth. So, 
quietly laying down my spoon, I busied myself with 
studying my neighbors. Their soup had come also— 
and such soup! Mine, I know, cost three cents! 
How much theirs cost I know not; but, to judge from 
the dancing eyes, smacking lips, and restless move¬ 
ments, theirs must have cost as much! One fellow 
seized his spoon and, opening the wide expanse of 
mouth he called his own, deposited a goodly quantity 
of the boiling liquid therein ; but, reader, pray excuse 
me, it was soon disgorged, and, with a convulsive 
twitch of his head upwards, and a still wider opening 
of his oral capacity, ’twould seem, from ear to ear, he 


96 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


said, with solemn gravity, “ Oh ! how far it is from 
the earth to the sky ! It was evident that lie wished 
to conceal from liis companions his sad mishap, that 
they too might be caught. In a twinkling, lantern-jaw 
the second was giving a repetition of number one, 
and, with admirable presence of mind, though writhing 
under the pain, he looked waggishly at the first men¬ 
tioned and replied, “ Yes, ’tis just about as far from 
the earth to the sky as from the sky to the earth ; only a 
little more so.” “ Morbleu,” roared number three, rising 
in a towering rage from the table, upsetting plates, 
soup, and all, as he aimed a blow at his nearest 
neighbor, “ Maudite soit votre phiiosophie ! pourquoi 
ne nr a tu pas dis que la soupe etoit si chaude ? ” 
which, in plain English, might mean, “ To perdition 
with your philosophy ! why didn't you tell me that 
the soup was so hot ? ” In an instant the whole posse 
were fighting, and I withdrew. It was after dark when 
I reached my hotel, and, as I entered the gate, I could 
but laugh at the queer method some people have of 
sawing wood. Two strapping fellows hold the saw, 
while two others push the log backwards and for¬ 
wards ! “ Well,” thought I, “ this goes ahead of what 

I heard of France ; for I was told that they hitched a 
horse by the tail when they wished to back the cart! ” 


CHAPTER XI. 


Church of St. Ouen—Important official—Trait of jealousy—Reflections on 
St. Ouen’s Church—Hotel de Ville—Museum—Library—Trait of Co- 
pernican system—The photographer—The halls and warehouses—Prot¬ 
estant church St. Eloi—Church of St. Vincent— Anecdote of the Duke 
of Argyle—Church of St. Vivian—Church of St. Nicaise—Association 
of ideas—Norman style of coaches—Hack drivers versus friendship— 
Church of St. Gervaise—Reflections on church of St. Gervaise—Sub¬ 
terranean chapel of St. Gervaise—Death of William the Conqueror 
—The old Monk—Anecdote of prosy preacher—Preparations for a 
journey. 


At an early hour, on Friday 23d November, I started 
for the Church of St. Ouen, after the Cathedral the 
most celebrated church in the city. How shall I 
describe it ? It is a pile of beauties, antiquities, and 
curiosities. Never shall I forget the strange feelings 
which came over me as I gazed upon this immense 
pile ; and even now, as I read my notes and look upon 
the picture of the building, I can scarce control my 
nerves. It was originally an abbey or monastery, the 
first in Normandy. It was founded in 553, destroyed 
by the Normans in 841 ; but some years subse¬ 
quently, Rollo, of whose conversion and baptism we 
have spoken, restored this monument of religion, and 
5 


98 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


had the relics of St. Ouen brought back to their ori¬ 
ginal shrine, from which they had been privately re¬ 
moved by the monks of the abbey during the sacking 
of the city and church. About the middle of the 
eleventh century a new edifice was erected, which, 
although begun in 1046, was completed only in 1226. 
Twenty years later this entire structure was destroyed 
by fire. Again were the church and abbey erected 
through the liberality of the Empress Matliilde and 
of Henry IT., her son, only again to be razed to the 
ground by fire; and finally the present edifice was 
commenced in 1318. The choir, the chapels, the pil¬ 
lars which support the tower, and a portion of the 
transept, occupied twenty-one years in building. The 
edifice was completed in the sixteenth century. In 
conveying an idea of this vast and gorgeous temple, I 
shall adopt the sentiments of a writer whose soul ap¬ 
preciated the beauties here so profusely spread out 
before him. I can readily understand how such emo¬ 
tions possessed him as he gazed upon it; for surely 
no one can enter this church without feeling a certain 
awe—a consciousness that it is “ no other than the 
house of God and the gate of Heaven.” “ Ho edi¬ 
fice,” says Count Brugnat, himself a model of piety 
and a man of genius, “ strikes the eye more forcibly, 
or proclaims more effectually the majesty of the only 
Lord, than the Church of St. Ouen. The perfect har¬ 
mony of all its proportions increases the admiration 
which at first fills the beholder; and the dim light of 
day, reflected from the stained windows, adds to the 
inexpressible feeling. But one thing is wanted to per¬ 
fect the entire—a soft, sweet note from the organ 


ST. OUEn’s. 


99 


floating down the aisles and arches.” The exterior 
has lately been restored, or perhaps finished accord¬ 
ing to the original design. The church is 450 feet 
long, the nave, 240 feet, the choir or sanctuary, 102 
feet, and the chapel of the B. Virgin, in rear of the 
main altar, 69 feet long. It is about 102 feet to the 
key of the dome. The transept is 129 feet long. It 
is lighted by 125 stained glass windows, divided into 
three rows. Besides these are three large “ rosettes ” 
or circular windows. I was particularly pleased with 
one on the left on entering—a Sybil declaring some 
prophecy, and St. Romanus conquering the serpent; 
another represents the saint kneeling, as the waters 
of the Seine are retiring before the force of his prayer. 

In this church, near the grand entrance, I remem¬ 
ber a beautiful holy water vase, which, by a skilful 
deception or perfect optical illusion, reflects the entire 
ceiling of the church. The effect is singular. Unlike 
most other churches, the side-chapels of St. Ouen sur¬ 
round only the choir. There are eleven of them, in¬ 
cluding that of the B. Virgin. I noticed in the wall 
a slab, bearing the name and the date of the death of 
Alexander de Berneval, one of the architects of the 
building. It ends with a simple petition, “ Pray God 
for his soul.” Sweet and touching request, nowhere 
seen, nowhere practised, save in the Holy Catholic 
Church! While deciphering the quaint old Gothic 
letters of this slab, I learned the history of this man’s 
death from our polite guide, who (like all such offi¬ 
cials in France) was dressed, “ a la militaire,” with 
chapeau bras, short breeches, long white stockings, 
and buckled shoes, with a scarf, hanging broad and 


100 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


flowing across liis left breast; bearing a bedean or 
long staff in his hand, which he flourished every now 
and then, like a “ drum major ” at the head of his 
band, as he’d bring its feruled end down with empha¬ 
sis upon the marble floor, making the whole building 
ring with his official dignity. De Berneval was exe¬ 
cuted in 1439 for the murder of his apprentice, under 
the following circumstances. At each end of the 
transept is seen a large rosette window, beautiful be¬ 
yond expression. The master-workman, Berneval, 
executed one, and his apprentice the other. The lat¬ 
ter’s work was pronounced superior to the former’s, 
which so filled the narrow soul of De Berneval with 
jealousy, that he slew his apprentice. For this he 
was put to death ; and the monks of St. Ouen, having 
obtained his remains, interred them within the walls 
he had raised. 

With the exception of a passably good life-sized 
statue of St. Cecilia, I saw but little else in any of 
these side-chapels to attract attention. Where all, 
however, is so grand, it is difficult to select. It may 
perhaps be as well to refer to the tomb of the son of 
Talbot, Marshal of France. It is in the chapel of the 
B. Yirgin, and bears a quaint old inscription in Gothic 
characters, which I copied at the time, and which bore 
date VI Janvier, MCCCCXXXVIII. There is another 
tablet, bearing an ancient inscription, in honor of the 
Abbot Boussel, under whose auspices this building 
w T as commenced ; and near it a sad memento of the 
Abbd Mac Carlan, who fell dead in this church, on 
descending from the pulpit in 1851. As a general 
thing, I do not think the paintings remarkable. Of 


LES VIITRAUX FEINTS. 


101 


all, perhaps the multiplication of the loaves, by Daniel 
Hall, is most pleasing. Perhaps it was because I was 
incapable of appreciating their beauties, or because I 
had read there are but few good paintings in the 
churches in France; or perhaps because their bold 
points were lost, literally swallowed up, in the all-ab¬ 
sorbing effect of the stained-glass windows around and 
above me; but, certain it is, I found little interest in 
looking on them. 

While as I stood, and, wondering, gazed at the 
“ toute ensemble,”—the perfect harmony of parts, the 
blending of ten thousand mellow tints upon the marble 
floor, the forest of banded columns, light, airy, and 
high, supporting what seemed a sky of light, whose 
brilliant yet subdued rays spoke of that upper world 
of beauty and of bliss—my soul expanded with the 
theme, and, like the u ever ancient, ever new ” Niagara 
of my own loved land, new beauties opened and fresh 
wonders appeared, the longer I gazed! It is said to 
be the most perfect specimen of mediaeval architecture 
in France. 

O how enchanting was the scene, as, seated near 
the main altar, and unseen by the pious crowds in 
prayer, I listened to the explanations of my guide ; 
the bright morning sun came pouring in from side and 
top, from rosettes and concealed windows, so arranged 
as to cast a soft, mellow reflection on shrines and altars; 
the very walls seemed one blaze of glory, lighting up 
the countenances of the living, and the statues of the 
dead! Never before, and never since, have I expe¬ 
rienced such emotions. I have seen many cathedrals, 
imposing churches, and awe-inspiring temples; but, 


102 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


while each may have its peculiar grandeur, complicated 
or almost infinite vastness of extent, St. Ouen surpasses 
them all, it seems to me, in the heavenly soaring spirit 
which it inspires. Its very design, so frail apparently, 
and yet so perfectly adapted to its object, renders it 
remarkable. While the huge, frowning cathedral 
seems almost to shut out the light of day, or inspire 
its own sombre feelings, St. Ouen courts the light of 
Heaven, and inspires feelings of cheerful devotion. It 
seems the realization of the mystic old law, in the 
bright fulfilment of the shadowy past. With Dibdin, 
the celebrated English traveller, I too think that sen¬ 
sations are here experienced which no other church 
of the kind produces. A few words on the tower and 
exterior, and we pass to the “ Hotel de Yille,” for¬ 
merly the abbey attached to the church. From all 
parts of the surrounding country, the noble tower and 
facade are seen proudly rising above surrounding ob^ 
jects. The main tower rises 100 feet above the 
comb of the roof, and is 290 feet high from the 
street. It rises in graceful portions, ornamented with 
rich resources of true Gothic style. Pointed spires, 
windows, and arches adorn it. It is surmounted by 
circular open work, truly grand. 

This tower is supported by four massive pillars 
within the church, each pillar consisting of twenty- 
four columns grouped together. The west front or 
main entrance, which had been left unfinished, has 
recently been completed. The arched and receding 
doorways, like those of the Cathedral, are elaborately 
ornamented with statuary and figures in “ bas-relief.” 
The entire fagade or front is 117 feet broad, its very 


st. ouen’s chukch. 


103 


narrowness, in contrast witli the immense length of 
the building, producing a striking effect. This fagade 
is adorned with numerous historical statues. In a 
niche, above all, is St. Ouen, patron of the church. 
Then in the upper gallery come eleven niches, the 
centre of which is occupied by a noble statue of Wil¬ 
liam the Conqueror, the other ten by Bishops, Dukes, 
and Abbots, who have befriended or presided over' 
the Abbey of St. Ouen. Beneath this gallery of 
statues, and above the first or grand entrance, is a 
symbol of the Trinity ; under this, a statue of our Re¬ 
deemer ; and on each side of the main entrance are 
statues of the twelve apostles, most exquisite in de¬ 
tail, and each distinguished by the symbol or imple¬ 
ment usually attributed to him—St. Peter by the 
keys, St. John by the chalice, out of which a snake 
escapes, &c. The other doors, front and lateral, are 
ornamented ii* a similar manner by the kings and 
dukes of France, and by distinguished saints and 
patrons of the abbey. Grand and imposing as is this 
fagade, it is not so pleasing to me as the-south en¬ 
trance, which has been recently repaired I was for¬ 
cibly struck by the boldness with which the artist has 
suspended two pendants or large ornaments, as if in 
the air. Three panels represent in bas-relief the 
burial, the assumption, and the entrance of the Blessed 
Virgin into heaven. Striking and beautiful figures. 
I crossed to the opposite side of the Place St. Ouen, 
and stood looking up to the towers, spires, and lofty 
windows of the church; and I thought what high and 
noble appreciation of the beautiful in morals, as well 
as the sublime in nature, must that mind possess 


104 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


which first conceived the idea of so vast an edifice! 
what exalted ideas—what almost intimate acquaint¬ 
ance with the hidden laws of cause and effect—what 
creative faculties ! Surely the mind that planned and 
executed St. Ouen’s Church, must have been conver¬ 
sant with the higher feelings which take in all that is 
lovely, cheering and grand, in divine revelation. A 
sordid, earthly mind might dream of beauties such as 
these, but could never mould them into form. 

Adjoining the north wing of the transept is the 
modern “ Hotel de Yille.” It was originally the dor¬ 
mitory of the Abbey of St. Ouen. Public offices oc¬ 
cupy the ground-floor; the library and museum the 
second. I passed an hour in each of these; the for¬ 
mer is opened nearly every day to the public. It is 
extensive and well arranged. At present there are 
upwards of one hundred thousand volumes, and more 
than twelve hundred manuscripts, among them a 
missal once belonging to the Archbishop of Can¬ 
terbury, and brought to France from England in 
1050; besides others equally remarkable for their 
illuminated letters. The museum, on the same floor, 
comprises many objects of interest; but I found most 
pleasure in examining the numerous paintings, which, 
by the catalogue, were over three hundred. A very 
polite old gentleman, whom I at first mistook for a 
general or military officer of some grade, but who 
proved to be a policeman, was at the door, and waved 
me back as I approached. I soon understood that the 
museum was open only on Sundays and Thursdays to 
the public. But when, in the name of “ American 
citizen, ” I asked admission, I was more fortunate than 


THE HOTEL DE VILLE. 


105 


on my application to the cure of St. Patrice! A 
catalogue was politely handed me, and my umbrella 
as politely taken from me, and I entered. There are 
many noble paintings here. How I regretted my ig¬ 
norance of art! Among those which pleased me 
most, were the “Virgin of St. Sixtus” by Raphael; 
the blessed Mother is encircled by little children; 
“The calling of St. Matthew” by Yalentine, but 
which I thought inferior to one in the Mead Gal¬ 
lery in Washington City; and “ St. Francis in an 
ecstasy ” by Annibal Carracio. Of these tableaux, all 
I can say is they pleased me more than the others. 
There are many statues among them, one of Corneille 
in “ terre cuite.” One of the greatest curiosities of 
the “ Hotel de Ville ” is the flight of stone steps, which 
seem almost self-supported, as they mount, in circular 
form, from the ground to the upper story in the middle 
of the building. There are statues of Louis XY., Cor¬ 
neille, and others, in different portions of the long corri¬ 
dors and halls. In the gardens, once the silent walking- 
grounds of the holy monks of St. Ouen, but now public 
walks, is a simple fountain, near which, in an angle of 
the church transept and the Hotel de Yille, is an odd¬ 
looking building, said to be a relic of some one of the 
many churches or chapels successively standing here. 
At present the first story is used as an office, and the 
second for the works of a large clock which tolls forth 
the hours. On leaving this interesting spot, I remem¬ 
ber entering a cafe near the corner of Rue Napoleon 
and Damiette, where the “ gar§on,” after much ado 
and delay, brought me what he called coffee. He 
was a sorry specimen of the genus “ gar£on,” who are 
5* 


106 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


generally all life, activity and cleanliness. This poor 
shoat was neither. One eye was the worse evidently 
of having run against a fist or pump-handle; one 
cheek bore unmistakable evidence of finger-nails. 
He was a veritable apology for a “ gargon ” as I called 
him, much more so for “ Mons. Le Proprietaire,” or 
the master of the house, as afterwards I discovered 
him to be. With divers bows and flourishes, he en¬ 
tered into a half-suppressed conversation, as be cast a 
glance now and then at the door in the rear. I soon 
learned the u pauvre diable’s ” story. He had a second 
wife; the first he used to whale unmercifully; the 
second whaled him cruelly ! u And no later, Monsieur, 
than yesterday, elle m’a battu terriblement! ” and he 
cried aloud. Unfortunately, at the moment while he 
was engaged in delivering this jeremiad, up came his 
wife, a veritable Xantippe, and off dodged our hero 
of the black eye; I laughed, and she laughed, as he 
shot through the door and disappeared. It reminded 
me of the distich written by a half-witted mortal in 
the same predicament. He never would admit the 
Copernican system—that the earth moves and the 
sun is standing, till, one day, philosophizing on the rev¬ 
olution of all earthly things, after a sound thrashing 
from his “ cara sposa,” he whined out: 

“ Copernicus, thou sayest true— 

The world turns round, and not the sun; 

For I beat my first wife black and blue, — 

And now I’m beaten by my second one.” 

Sound philosopher that man! I know not whether 
such profound thoughts ever emanated from the luck¬ 
less wight who has just made his exit; but this I 


CHURCH OF ST. MACLON. 


107 


know, he seemed evidently to have deserved. all he 
got. In a thickly-settled quarter of the city, on the 
corner of the Rue Malpolie and Martainville, stands 
the ancient Church of St. Maclon, built in 1472. It 
is nearly concealed by the high houses surrounding it, 
destroying the view of its porches, doorways, and cu¬ 
riously-ornamented facade, which render the church 
a remarkable specimen of the architecture of the fif¬ 
teenth century. I find pencilled on the margin of 
my guide-book, “ grand and beautiful.” I met here 
a daguerreian taking photographs of the fagade and 
bas-reliefs. I remember the shrewdness with which 
he sought to involve in mystery the process of photo¬ 
graphy, no new subject to me, and the very disinter¬ 
ested manner in which, as “Monsieur was a lover of 
‘ les beaux arts, 5 ” he would put one of his copies at 
the extremely low price of twenty francs (nearly four 
dollars), when twenty sous would have been enough! 
I had long since learned by sad experience that “ fools 
and their money are soon parted,” Over one of the 
doors, in bas-relief, are represented different traits of 
the “ general judgment,” an odd-looking affair. More 
pleasing figures, also in bas-relief, over the southern 
and western doors, are arabesques, and different traits of 
scriptural history, the death and burial of the Blessed 
Virgin, &c. Its interior is vastly more imposing than 
one would imagine from the exterior. Its numerous 
stained windows, some of which, I think, have been 
disfigured by attempts to repair them—its remarkable 
flight of circular stone steps, in open work, leading to 
the organ—its holy silence, even though in the midst 
of a noisy neighborhood, renders it a place of much 


108 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


devotion. It seems like a breatliing-place between 
the excitements of business and the solemn truths of 
eternity, the noisy world around and the silent tombs 
beneath. Nearly opposite the northern gate of the 
church is a cemetery, often visited as a curiosity ; it 
is called “ 1’ autre St. Maclon.” I saw, however, no¬ 
thing curious there—little, indeed, to indicate that it 
was ever a burial-place. Let us pay a hasty visit to 
“ Les Halls,’’ to St. Eloi, St. Vincents, St. Mecaise, 
St. Vivian, and St. Gervase ; then to my hotel to pre¬ 
pare for the morrow’s journey to Paris. 

“ The Halls ” are a series of magazines for all kinds 
of industrial and mechanical products. They consist 
of distinct storehouses, some of them, as that for cot¬ 
ton fabrics, being immense. All sorts of merchandise 
may here be found ; it is, in fact, an “ omnium gathe¬ 
rum mixture composition ”—a “ world’s fair ” on no 
small scale. Although the present building is com¬ 
paratively modern, some remains of “ La Vielle Tour” 
still exist, incorporated into the present edifice. Here 
it was that Richard I., Duke of Normandy, whose 
bold motto was, “ sans peur et sans reproche,” built in 
the middle of the tenth century a fortified palace and 
tower, which served afterwards for a prison. Here it 
was the monster, John “ Lackland,” imprisoned his 
nephew, Arthur of Brittany, and assassinated him. 

Not far from the “ Hotel de Bourgtherold ” and 
the “ Place de la Thulle,” stands the Protestant 
Church of St. Eloi in the Place of the same name.. It 
is a more modern-looking structure than any we have 
seen. There were a few gathered for service when I 
entered. Its interior is large, empty, and unadorned, 


CHURCH OF ST. VINCENT. 


109 


save by a few religious emblems. However, if they 
who worship here find no fault w T ith this, why should I ? 
The Protestant service has been performed here since 
1803, and I v r as informed that out of the population 
of Rouen about 2,000 are numbered among the differ¬ 
ent sects. We pass in our homeward route the ancient 
Church of St. Vincent. I find entered on my guide¬ 
book “ Pas grande chose.” It is, however, interesting 
on the score of its stained windows, one of which, in 
the side nave on the right, represents the “ Virgin 
Mother ” kneeling in prayer near several of the apos¬ 
tles. There is something strangely attractive in the 
bold, dignified faces of the latter, and pleasing in the 
sweet expression and in the graceful drapery of the 
former. The beheading of St. John the Baptist, on 
the left, is a noble production, also in stained glass. 
The whole interior presents a light, airy style of archi¬ 
tecture of the fifteenth century. Portions are spoiled, 
I think, by the execrable taste which introduced fan¬ 
tastic ornaments on the columns around the choir. 
The barbarian, even though it were “ De Prance,” 
wdio could thus mar the beauty of such columns, de¬ 
served, in my opinion, the thanks of the community 
in the same sense in which the Duke of Argyle re¬ 
turned his to a rude fellow who entered his parlor, 
booted and spurred. “I return you my profound 
thanks,” said the noble Duke. “Why?” asked the 
intruder. “For not bringing your horse along with 
you into my parlor.” We will hasten on to the 
Church of St. Vivian, in the street of the same name. 
It is remarkable for nothing except its antiquity, as it 
was built in the twelfth century. There is a curiously- 


110 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


carved organ and a frosted belfry. It is a sombre, 
dilapidated, moss-covered building ; yet there is some¬ 
thing imposing in its very gloom. On “la rue Pois¬ 
son ” stands a still more ancient edifice, moss-covered, 
crumbling, and gloomy—the Church of St. Nicaise. 
It dates from the eighth century, and was founded by 
St. Ouen. The interior is dumpy and sombre. Here, 
however, I saw two windows which pleased me. In 
one of them are represented faith, hope, and charity, 
under lovely figures—the other, some bishop. Al¬ 
though from the sixteenth century, or perhaps earlier, 
the colors are fresh and brilliant. I could but smile 
as I saw the old musty red covers for the chandeliers 
and candelabra ; for it brought to mind an old coun¬ 
try church to which I often walked during vacations 
at “Pigeon Hills, Adams co., Pa.,” when old St. 
Mary’s College, of Baltimore, was in full blast under 
the lamented Eccleston and Chanche. Strange asso¬ 
ciation of ideas! yet so it was, kind reader, and you 
perhaps may one day realize, in a far-off land, that 
“ trifles light as air ” at home will bring a smile, per¬ 
haps a tear, as the “ light of other days comes o’er 
you ! Jumping into a “ voiture ” or apology for a 
hack, with two lank, barrel-ribbed quadrupeds, called 
horses by courtesy, I was rolled along with a speed 
which would have done credit to a convalescent snail, 
until I reached the ancient Church of St. Gervase, 
beyond the Faubourg Bouvereau, the extreme FT. W. 
end of the city. On alighting from this specimen of 
Norman locomotion, I could but think what a remark¬ 
able similarity there is between the hack-drivers and 
what the world has desecrated by the term “ Friends.” 


CHURCH OF ST. GERVASE. 


Ill 


When I was bargaining for that cab, I was surrounded 
by a score or less of noisy cabmen, all desirous of 
“ l'honneur, de la compagnie de Monsieur! ” but when 
I left it, I was alone ; even the driver seemed sulky 
because there was nothing more to be got out of me. 
So, thought I, with friends, as they are falsely called. 
When you are sailing on the tide of prosperity, and 
u Monsieur ” or “ Madame ” has the winning charm 
of money, favor, or patronage, to bestow, all are anx¬ 
ious to have “f honneur de la compagnie de Mon¬ 
sieur” or “Madame.” But, get over your journey, 
let them get out of you all you have to give, and how 
soon they’ll slam the door of their old hack—their 
empty hearts against you, like my surly driver! Such 
is human friendship. Reader , have you ever experi¬ 
enced this f On this spot, in 386, St. Yictricius, a 
Bishop of Rouen, erected a chapel or shrine to receive 
the relics of St. Gervase, -which had been given by 
St. Ambrose. This was the origin of this old church. 
From age to age, for sixteen hundred years, it has 
been repaired, destroyed, rebuilt, and preserved, a 
glorious remnant of almost apostolic days. Through 
fire and blood, and devastations by man and nature, 
this old tower stands ; and to-day, as centuries ago, 
ere half the kingdoms of Europe existed, the cowled 
monk and sandaled priest is heard, chanting his matin 
song and evening hymn to Heaven ! How many sto¬ 
ries could these old walls repeat! what scenes of de¬ 
struction have they witnessed! How often have 
these old stone slabs been stained with the blood of 
Christian heroes, shed by savage hordes ! And then, 
again, as we descend by a flight of twenty light steps 


112 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


into the subterranean chapel, and, by the feeble glim¬ 
mering of our torches, look around us, what holy 
thoughts come over us! On the right and left are 
arches in which the Archbishops of Rouen, Sts. Mello 
and Aritius, are buried. Here, then, are the remains 
of that ancient chapel! Here, within these hallowed 
walls, thirty-four feet long, and fifteen to the floor of 
the present church, how many saintly persons have 
knelt—how many tears and prayers have been offered 
to Heaven ! It seemed as if I was treading the confines 
of time—the past and the future seemed blended in 
one solemn present—and I paused to listen to the old 
Monk’s legends with reverential awe. “ Here,” said 
the “ old man eloquent,” “ they laid him down when 
he died.” “Whom?” asked I. “William the Con¬ 
queror,” he replied. “ And was it here he died ? ” 
“ Yes, yonder the old monastery stood then ; ” and 
he continued in a tone and manner that rendered 
every word he uttered, and every gesture, simple as 
they were, perfectly graceful, because free from af¬ 
fectation. “ In the king’s last days, Robert, his son, 
rebelled against him. In a personal encounter be¬ 
tween Robert and his enfeebled old father, the king, 
William was wounded in his hand. This broke down 
the energy of the monarch ; for, of all afflictions, the 
heaviest is filial ingratitude. The old king’s days 
were drawing to a close. He had been a mighty con¬ 
queror—a great man, and no doubt a bad man—but 
he had a good heart. He was afflicted with some dis¬ 
ease that made him very corpulent; and, while un¬ 
dergoing a course of medicine to reduce his size, word 
was brought him that King Philip of France jested at 


DEATH OF "WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR. 


113 


his expense—that he had compared the Duke of Nor¬ 
mandy to a woman in her confinement! This exas¬ 
perated the king, and he swore that at his “ church¬ 
ing ” (a custom in use in the church even from the 
earliest days) “he would make all Paris blaze with 
candles.” He marshalled his army, marched towards 
the French borders, seized and sacked the city of 
Mantry, when, by a mysterious providence, his career 
was stopped. He was riding round the smoking 
ruins, when his horse stumbled, threw him violently 
against the pommel of his saddle, which caused a rup¬ 
ture. He at once felt it would be fatal, and directed 
his attendants to bring him to this convent. Here he 
lingered six weeks, and died piously, as the convent 
bell was calling our brothers to prayer, on the 9tli 
September, 1087.” Here the old man paused, and, 
making the sign of the cross, breathed the fervent 
prayer, “ May the good God grant peace to his soul! ” 
I will remark, that subsequent reference to Lingard 
and other historians confirmed the old monk’s story. 
By a slab over the front entrance I learned the same, 
and also that the body of the king was subsequently 
taken to Caen, and deposited in the Church of St. 
Stephen, which he had erected. Here then, on the 
place on which I was standing, the “ Gauger,” as he 
was styled, “ William the Conqueror,” the once ruth¬ 
less Northman—the fearless “Sea-King,” after filling 
the world with the glory of his name and his exploits, 
came to die! Here it was that the expiring hero, 
after striving to make his peace with Heaven, and to 
obtain God’s pardon for crimes committed through 
ambition and misguided zeal, at the sound of the 


114 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


convent bell, when holy men bent in prayer, ex¬ 
claimed, in the words quoted by liis chronicler, “ 1 
commend my soul to my blessed Lady , the Mother of 
God , that by her holy prayers she may reconcile me to 
her Son, my Lord Jesus Christ .” How strange it seems 
to me to stand here! How little we in America can 
appreciate such association until we are on the spot! 
I left the good old monk, and pursued my homeward 
way. Evening was stealing on apace, and I hurried to 
the Hotel to make arrangements for the morrow. In 
my walks 1 could make but a partial visit to many other 
places of deep interest in the city ; and I leave them for 
abler pens to describe. For the rest, I sincerely hope 
that thus far my readers have not become so fatigued 
by following me in my wanderings, as to fall asleep on 
the way ; for I fear they may make the same reply to 
me once made by a gallant colonel to a prosy preach¬ 
er : 44 Oh, Colonel, so you were sleepy during the ser¬ 
mon yesterday ! why did you not put some snuff in 
your nose to keep yourself awake ? ” “ Why didn’t 

you put some snuff in your sermon, or something else, 
to keep us awake?” We will rest from our labors 
this evening, pack our extensive wardrobe! and court 
44 tired nature’s sweet restorer, balmy sleep,” prepara¬ 
tory to our morrow’s journey. 


CHAPTER XII. 


Leaving Rouen—En route for Paris—Travelling companions—Ludicrous 
scene—Bird’s-eye view of country—Tunnels—Poissy—Castles—Smoking 
in the cars—Arrival in Paris—Police Regulations—Examining luggage 
Hotel J. J. Rousseau—Interview with Father Deluol—The old “ Family 
—Roof”—Church of St. Eustache—Cathedral of Notre Dame—High 
Mass at Notre Dame—Interior of Notre Dame. 

W ITH many pleasing recollections of Rouen I 
took my seat in the cars for Paris on Satur¬ 
day morning, November 24th. This depot, like all 
in France, at the principal stations, is a splendid 
building. From this city to Paris is a distance by 
this route of three hours and a quarter. The same 
order prevailed here, the same regularity as in Havre. 
And were it not for the rush at the last moment for 
seats, you would scarce imagine yourself on the 
point of starting on a journey. Farewell to Rouen; 
its splendid churches, historic monuments, and lite¬ 
rary institutions, I may never see again. Yet go where 
I may, I shall always remember the few and pleasant 
days I passed within her gates with mingled pleasure 
and sadness: for ’mid all my rambles, go where I 
might, and let wdiat would arise, I felt lonesome ! 


116 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


Had my brother been with me I had seen ten thou¬ 
sand attractions where now I saw but few, because 
they would then have been “reflected from looks 
that I love ! ” The signal is given, oif w^e go—once 
more, adieu to Rouen! And now let us look round, 
and see our “ compagnons du voyage.” I must do 
something to divert my mind from gloomy reflections, 
for I feel that every revolution of the wheels carries 
me farther from home—nigher, it is true, the goal of all 
my hopes and wishes, Rome—yet farther from home! 
This time I am in the third-class cars. Around me, 
“ live stock ” of all kinds. The day is rainy, and our 
hard-seated cars are closely confined. The windows 
are down and we are locked in. Bless me, how sti¬ 
fling the atmosphere soon becomes. It is insupport¬ 
able ! Perhaps a cigar may revive me. “ Ah! par¬ 
don, Monsieur,” and the “ courtesies of the weed” 
are extended by a bloused “ Paysan,” most essen¬ 
tially ugly! Pull away, and pull away—“ Ast to- 
tuin in vanum! ” It would require a stronger 
blister on the back of my neck to draw that cigar, 
than it is said was used by a friend of mine in 
the lower counties of Maryland for a similar pur¬ 
pose ! The fact is, I must open the window. And 
with “pardon, Monsieur,” “ah, pardon, Madame,” 
and a desperate rush, the window is fortunately 
opened. On we go, thirty miles an hour, passing 
gardens, villages, and farm-houses, which seem as 
atoms flying by. At length we stop at Tourville, 
without time to catch more than a glance at the beau¬ 
tiful landscape, which is spread out before us, as v r e 
pass through over the bridge Oissee—the village is 


VERNON. 


117 


decidedly old-fashioned. Off we go, passing through 
the gloomy tunnel, which is nearly 1,400 feet long, 
and the little city of “ Pont de L’arche,’ glorying in 
its immense bridge of twenty-two arches, its Gothic 
church, and its beautiful promenades; until we reach 
Londres a small specimen of a city having about 
1,100 inhabitants. Here we stop for a few minutes. 
From what little I saw of it, I should conclude that 
Londres was head-quarters of odd-looking old dames, 
for dogs, and peanuts ! Leaving St. Pierre we enter 
the frightful tunnel of Villers, which is nearly 6,000 
feet in length ! It is like going through the valley<of 
death. The horrid screaming of the locomotive, the 
thick smoke, the darkness of the cars made visible 
by a smoky lamp suspended from the roof, the roar¬ 
ing of the cars thundering through, and then your 
own thoughts—to me it was gloomy enough. Soon 
we emerged, and the light of day was cheering. 
Vernon, with its churches, chateaus, and castles, on the 
right and left, then an almost endless tunnel through 
rock, nearly 7,000 feet in length, called the tun¬ 
nel de Eolleboise, when we bring up at Rosey. From 
a loquacious, but sensible man, if man I may call so 
shrivelled and dried up, so hatchet-faced, and be- 
whiskered an animal, I learned that the chateau yon¬ 
der on the brow of the hill once belonged to the 
u Duchess de Berri; ” that here was born Sully, the 
friend and Prime Minister of Henry IY.; and that 
the neighborhood still cherished the memory of the sad 
yet noble Duchess with gratitude, for she had been 
a benefactress to this little village, which she loved to 
visit. Nantes is our next stopping-place. Menlau 


118 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


on tlie right, and Triel on the left are passed, and we 
bring np again at Poissy, the birthplace of St. Louis 
IX., King of France in 1215. All who have read 
any thing of French history will remember that the 
Saintly King often, through humility, styled himself 
“ Louis de Poissy.” There is here a splendid cathe¬ 
dral, erected by Philip the Fair, the altar of which 
stands on the identical spot on which St. Louis was 
born. There is something sweet associated with this 
place; where the illustrious Queen Mother, Blanche 
of Castile, who often and emphatically repeated to 
her pious son and those around her, that dearly as 
she loved him, and necessary as she believed his life 
for the peace of France, she would prefer a thousand 
times to see him dead before her than to see him live 
to commit one mortal sin! History attests how 
piously the Sainted King corresponded with her in¬ 
structions. Soon we pass the village of Maisons with 
the noble chateau of Monsieur la Fitte; and, after 
passing two bridges, we reach the village of Co- 
lombe, where Henrietta of England and daughter of 
Henry IV., King of France, died in 1669. On our 
way we have changed our jDassengers nearly five times. 
Oddities getting out only to let quiddities get in! 

Soldiers, paysans, garrulous old men and women, 
whose tongues clattered to the time of the wheels— 
laughing, rollicking, jovial, singing young folks, all 
happy and cheerful. Surely I was in a hard crowd : 
there is, however, an innate politeness in a French¬ 
man, no matter how humble his position, that is al¬ 
ways pleasing—sometimes irresistibly ludicrous. At 
Poissy, a thin-visaged little “ Rooster Monkey ” of a 


REMINISCENCES OF THE CARS. 


119 


fellow, cross-eyed and pug-nosed, entered our menage¬ 
rie car, and soon pulled out a cigar for Monsieur this 
one and that one, and some others besides! Then, 
with a most expressive grin, intended for a smile, he 
touched his greasy little black cloth cap, and bowing 
profoundly to a little snapping-turtle Miss near him, 
spoke as loud as he thought necessary to ask if smok¬ 
ing in her presence would be agreeable. She, of the 
frills and capers, and quaintly-fashioned cap, either 
did not hear him dr heed him. I suggested that, per¬ 
haps “ Mamselle ” was hard of hearing. “Ma foi! 
pauvre enfant!” said he, and standing as straight 
as the motion of the cars would allow him, he bel¬ 
lowed out in a voice of young thunder, u is smoking 
disagreeable to you, Mamselle?” The effect was 
electric. She had been dozing; and roused thus sud¬ 
denly from her dreams, she started—bobbed against 
our a Rooster Monkey,” and replied, “pardon, Mon¬ 
sieur, pardon! ” She courtesied, and he bowed, and 
it was “ pardon, Monsieur,” and “ pardon, Mamselle ” 
for some minutes. ~No cigar, however, was smoked, 
while I was literally sore from laughing! We are 
approaching “ La Grande Ville,” Paris, the city of 
Europe par excellence. How strange it seems—yet 
on we go, thundering, rushing by lines of fortifica¬ 
tions, gradually accumulating houses, through arches, 
over bridges, passing teams and vehicles of all sorts 
and sizes, high hills, deep precipices, factories, labor¬ 
ers in the fields in blue-colored blouses, flying by 
telegraph posts, and we catch a distant view of the 
dome of St. Genevieve, the lofty column of Yen- 
dome, and numerous spires, domes, and columns of the 


120 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


city. Here we are at the depot in Paris—an immense 
building. Here, on descending from the cars, we are 
ushered into a large hall, through which we pass to 
another where the luggage of the passengers is ranged 
on a platform like the counter of a store. On select¬ 
ing his own, each opens it in turn for inspection by 
the police, a mere form—and then selecting a porter, 
easily known by his dress, he proceeds to a cab which 
he will find in readiness for him, as if awaiting his 
express arrival; entering it he will he supplied with 
a card containing the number of the cab, the rates of 
fare, and a notice where to apply for redress in case 
of any attempt at extortion on the part of the driver, 
or any complaint you may have to make. All this is 
done with the most perfect system. And, in a few 
minutes, on you go to your hotel or address, through 
the thousand winding, muddy streets in the vicinity 
of the depot, and are landed where you will. By 
the advice of mirfe host of the “ Hotel de Paris, 55 at 
Rouen, I drove to hotel a Jean Jacques Rousseau, 55 in 
the street of the same name ; although I must confess 
I was a little dubious from the very name it bore. It 
proved, however, most excellent quarters—reason¬ 
able, comfortable, opposite the post-office, in a suffi¬ 
ciently central part of the city, and presided over by 
a motherly old lady, to whom I was afterwards in¬ 
debted for many kind attentions. Surrendering my 
passport to “ Madame, 55 who entered it on her regis¬ 
ter, I was conducted to my room, neatly furnished, 
for one franc a day. Again, said I, in snug quarters! 
It was about 2 p. m. ; and although fatigued with 
travelling, there was a restlessness about me that 


FATHER DELUOL. 


121 


would not let me remain quiet. Reader, do you wish 
to know its cause ? Many who may read these papers 
will anticipate my answer. With them I remembered 
the days of old—the good old days of St. Mary’s Col¬ 
lege and Seminary in Baltimore, when a gray-headed, 
beloved old superior, presided over the one, and an 
Eccleston or Chanche over the other—where more 
than half the pangs of separation from home were 
forgotten, in the happiness around us; when the thou¬ 
sand boyish tricks we played were attributed to pro¬ 
per sources—where science taught us to love religion, 
and religion elevated and sanctified science—where 
every Thursday found us a happy group, following 
the lead of that noble, tall, erect, old man, beloved 
and venerated alike by Protestant and Catholic, whose 
long, gray locks floated over his ample collar, as he’d 
stop, ever and anon, hat in hand, to relate a story, or 
point his long cane at some ludicrous object, making 
us as merry, light-hearted, and gay as himself; then 
when we’d reach Spring Garden, and enter the boats, 
some to pull at the oar, while others would chant 
the “ Ave Maris Stella,” under the lead of the good 
old Father; until, reaching the old Fish House, or 
Cromwell’s, some would prepare for a swim, others 
band together for “ prisoners’ base,” football, or the 
“ hop, skip, and jump,” until the signal for spiritual 
reading under a shady tree or on the river bank; 
then onward and homeward we’d journey as the oars¬ 
men kept time to the “Ave Maria Gratia Plena,” 
and we reached our happy home the Seminary. 
Reader, that good old man was Father Deluol! And 
he was now in Paris. Blame me not for this digres- 
6 


122 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


sion—for every old child of St. Mary’s will feel his 
heart throb quicker, and his eye moisten with a tear, 
as I repeat the name Father Deluol. Countless re¬ 
flections rush on the mind as I trace the name and 
refer to these old associations. There are hearts cold 
enough to forget old times—shallow enough to ignore 
their associations, and empty enough to receive any 
new impressions. Mine is not of that cast. At 
home and abroad, on the ocean and within the Six- 
, tine Chapel in Rome, I have loved to recall memories, 
traits, and trials of days gone by. With the poet of 
nature, Tom Moore, I too exclaim :— 

“ Long, long be my heart with such memories filled, 

Like the vase in which roses has once been distilled; 

Yon may break, you may scatter the vase if you will, 

But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.” 

I started for St. Sul pice. On I went, guided by 
my map, through the Rue J. J. Rousseau, Rue des 
Grenville, across the Rue St. Honore, passing through 
the splendid arches of the Louvre, over the “ Pont 
des Arts,” and on and on, until I found the Place 
“ St. Sulpice,” and stood at the door of the Seminary. 
Without pausing to cast more than a passing glance 
at the church, fountain, and splendid buildings before 
me, I rang for admission, was conducted through 
long corridors, and with a throbbing heart I stood at 
the door of him whom, of all on earth, next to my 
mother, brother, and sister, I love most fondly. My 
guide announced that a “ stranger from America ” 
wished to see him. In an instant I was folded in his 
arms, and father and child wept what words could 


SAINT SULPICE. 


123 


not express. Is it wrong to expose thus to public 
view, the scene of our meeting ? I am not writing a 
“ Guide-Book,” or a dull dissertation on matters and 
tilings in general, but “ My Trip to France and 
Rome.” And wliat to me would Paris have been 
bad not Father Deluol been there? To meet once 
again the guide and patron of my youth—that good 
old man, whose counsels, had they been better fol¬ 
lowed, would have always insured peace and happi¬ 
ness—whose every word and motion were identified 
with the happiest period of life—and whose smile 
was my highest ambition, next to that of Heaven— 
whose frown my greatest dread this side of error. 
To meet him once more; and as he clasped me to his 
heart after hard years of trial and separation, oh! it 
was too much happiness! He too felt, no doubt, that 
a true son’s heart was throbbing against his own; and 
as the good old man sobbed “ my child ! my own 
child, my own boy John ! ” the guide stood wonder¬ 
ing who and what I was. Do not say that human 
nature is all depraved ; that there is nothing left but 
sordid avarice; for I would have given half a life¬ 
time to be where I then was, and to realize that, 
though thousands of miles away from the scenes of 
home, there was one who knew me, one here who 
loved me ! Hours passed swiftly away in sweet in¬ 
terchange of thought. I found him still the same in 
heart, in feeling, and affection—but all else, how 
changed ! We, the younglings of his care, the chil¬ 
dren of his solicitude, the once young Levites under 
his guidance ; we can remember him in his palmy 
days—that ever-smiling face beaming with love, 


124: 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


cheerfulness, and good liumor—the noble form, the 
loud, merry laugh, and indulgent spirit, which par¬ 
doned our youthful follies, and won our whole soul’s 
love. Such is the Father Deluol of our recollection. 
The scene has changed. His face still wore the fa¬ 
therly smile we loved so dearly. His voice, feeble as 
it is, fell like sweet music on my ear. His heart was 
still the same, but emaciated, feeble, broken! 

The casket was shattered, though the jewel was 
unharmed. To many, as to me, this will be sad ; for 
his name is embalmed in the heart’s deepest affections 
of his numerous old children; while the widow, the 
orphan, and the young man struggling with poverty, 
yet aspiring to honorable distinction, will ever breathe 
his name with gratitude. With them I wept at the 
wreck time had made, and though I saw no more 
the full, white locks, the stately, almost military gait, 
which I had so long admired, still it was Father 
Deluol! ’Twas late in the evening when I tore my¬ 
self away ; and through windings and turnings, which 
seemed to me endless, I found my lodgings. It was 
raining, and I moralized on a plain truth, as homely 
as it is true. Header, did you ever have a good um¬ 
brella ? If so, did you ever keep it, or a good pen¬ 
knife, long ? I’ll be bound that six of every eight 
will say “Ho.” My good old cotton “family roof,” 
as Miss Bremer calls it—my old umbrella, sticks to 
me wonderfully. Had it been silk, or an “uncom¬ 
mon ” good one, ’twould have been long since among 
the missing. As it is, ’mid trials by sea and land, 
from Hew York to Europe, from the “ hermitage ” on 
Mount Vesuvius to old Hock Island in Illinois, that old 


NOTRE DAME. 


125 


umbrella, bought at random, and in a rain storm, in 
the street the morning I left New York, is at band 
like a true friend. Highflyers and butterfly-friends 
are like a silk umbrella, or a “ Rodger’s patent.” 
They stay for a while with you, but somehow or an¬ 
other when you most need them—“ Where can my 
umbrella be ? Who has my new knife ? ” On the 
morrow (Sunday, Nov. 25th) I assisted at early Mass 
at the church of St. Eustache, and at High Mass at 
the cathedral of “ Notre Dame.” The former is the 
parish church of this quarter, and is sitiffited at the 
extremity of the Hue Montmatre and the “ Place des 
Halles.” It was cheering to see the crowds of com¬ 
municants of both sexeg. This church is considered 
one of the finest monuments of the kind in Paris. 
And although situated in a mean, dirty location, and 
surrounded by fish stalls, vegetable stalls, and any 
amount of offensive garbage, it still presents an im¬ 
posing appearance. It comes down from the year 
1215, when a chapel in honor of St. Anne stood on 
this spot. The present edifice was commenced in 
1532, and continued at different epochs down to 1788. 
It is of mixed architecture—Greek and Gothic—pre¬ 
senting apparent contradictions; yet its general effect 
is imposing. What struck me most forcibly in the 
interior was the immense height of the ceiling, the 
ten lofty columns, each 100 feet high, supporting mid¬ 
ways, a gallery running entirely around the church ; 
twelve large Gothic windows of stained glass; the 
choir or sanctuary is superb ; the principal altar, of 
Parian marble, cost nearly 15,000 dollars. It is rich¬ 
ly sculptured. There are many side chapels; the 


126 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


most beautiful of which is that dedicated to the 
Blessed Virgin. The interior of this church had 
been recently renovated, and evidently looks much 
better for its new dress. “ Notre Dame,” the cathe¬ 
dral, is situated on the “Isle de la Cite,” on the 
Seine. Its history reaches far back in the early set¬ 
tlement of Paris. The very “ Isle ” was the original 
“Lutetia” of the ancient Parish under Julius Caesar. 
The present proud capital was then but a collection 
of mud huts, inhabited by a savage horde. From 
age to age the city spread; and though now the 
“ Isle ” is but a small portion of “ La Grande Ville,” 
it is venerable as the cradle of Paris. It is believed 
that a temple dedicated to Jupiter once stood on the 
site of the cathedral. This opinion is confirmed by 
the fact that, in 1711, while excavating the grounds 
around the cathedral, different altars were found— 
deities of Pagan Pome, and Gaul, bearing the name 
of the Emperor Tiberius. When it was destroyed is 
not certain. In 347, under the reign of the Emperor 
Valentinian, when Christianity was first introduced 
into Paris, or as it was early called, “ Lutetia Pari- 
siorum,” a small chapel stood here. Gradually it 
increased in size. When the ancient edifice was com¬ 
menced is not certain. Thus far in the gloom of an¬ 
tiquity does the sombre pile reach. Some antiquari¬ 
ans maintain that Pope Alexander the Third laid the 
foundations of the present building in 1160, when the 
previous one had fallen into ruin by the devastations 
of the Normans in the ninth century. Nearly three 
hundred years passed in the building. During the 
year 1223 the western facade was completed. Dur- 


PAINTINGS. 


127 


ing the reign of Philip Agustus, in 1312, under 
Philip the Fair, the north transept was built; and 
only in 1420 the “ porte rouge,” or “ bloody gate,” 
was built by the Duke of Burgundy, as part atone¬ 
ment for his crime, the assassination of the Duke of 
Orleans. Although “Notre Dame,” so intimately 
associated with the history of Paris, its vicissitudes, 
revolutions, “ lights and shadows,” has been so often 
described, that perhaps it is as familiar to most of my 
readers as to myself, I will venture my description, 
reliable as taken from actual experience, either by 
measurement or study on the spot; and surely not 
the less interesting from being the spontaneous feelings 
of an American traveller. The building is in form 
of a Latin cross. Yankee-like, I wished to see for 
myself its length and breadth. So I “ stepped it off,” 
and found that it was 172 steps and two feet, thus 
making 518 feet long; in breadth, in the nave, thirty- 
five steps and two feet, or 107 feet. 

The pictures we generally see of the Cathedral of 
“ Notre Dame ” are correct. They serve to convey a 
good idea of the exterior; but, like all other pictured 
views, they are more successful in deceiving us in the 
adjuncts of scenery. To believe the generality of 
those “ views,” “ Notre Dame de Paris,” like the 
“ Forum Romanum ” of the “ Seven Hilled City,” is 
most romantic—an old building here, a mouldering 
trunk of a tree there, a portly chevalier or an humble 
beggar at this precise spot—skies, bright or cloudy, 
or an ancient view bounding the horizon—such is the 
fable. Look on that picture, then on this. The 
“ Forum Romanum” of classic Rome is the “ campo 


128 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


vaccino ” or cow-field of our days! and the vast 
square or “Place Notre Dame,” where our cathe¬ 
dral stands, is literally, as I have pencilled on my 
note-book, “ a noisy, muddy, dirty, crowded, worldly 
place, suited to any thing save to call up pious 
thoughts, and the centre of all pursuits, it seemed to 
me, save the things of Heaven.” The church stands 
east and west. The exterior is imposing, though hor¬ 
ridly dingy and dirty-looking, literally covered With 
buttresses and pyramids. The fagade on the west has 
three receding, low pointed arched doorways, elabo¬ 
rately sculptured. Among these bas-reliefs, those, on 
the left doorway represent the death, assumption, and 
coronation in Heaven, of “ Notre Dame.” The centre 
one is adorned with the resurrection of our Blessed 
Lord, and with illustrations of the cardinal virtues 
and their opposite vices. The right-hand porch has 
the figure of a saint treading on a dragon, and several 
traits from the life of St. Joseph. The Vandal rage 
of the revolution, like its offspring of every succeed¬ 
ing generation, destroyed twenty-two statues, among 
which were several of the kings of Judah, which oc¬ 
cupied appropriate niches in the gallery, adorning the 
western fagade above the arched doorways. The 
grand front is terminated by two immense square 
towers, each 280 feet high. In one of these hangs 
the famous “ Bourdon,” which was cast in 1685, and 
weighs the almost fabulous amount of 32,000 lbs. It 
was consecrated to the glory of God in the same year, 
in presence of Louis XIV. and his queen, Emanuel 
Louise Tlierese. It is stated that the clapper of this 
bell weighs between 900 and 1,000 pounds. No won- 


THE BELLS. 


129 


der, when this deep-toned “ Bourdon ” sends its thun¬ 
der* notes over Paris, the city seems to listen in sur¬ 
prise ; and every man, woman, and child, stands 
riveted to the spot. It has often, in sorrow and in 
rejoicing, sent its “ Miserere ” or its “ Jubilate,” its 
wail of sadness or song of joy, over tower, dome, and 
hills. Fresh in our days is the recollection of its joy¬ 
ous notes booming over the city, as Napoleon III. 
and Eugenie were married ; still later, as the imperial 
father held up to “le peuple Frangais” the hope of 
his dynasty, his newly baptized heir, the “ Prince Im¬ 
perial ! ” Besides this monster “ Bourdon,” there is 
a fine chime of bells, and many single ones, which 
keep, with their peculiar regulations, clock-striking, 
&c., a continual clatter, any thing but agreeable. In 
the north tower is a staircase of 385 steps, which I as¬ 
cended to get a view of the city. It was well worth 
the fee of ten centimes, or two sous, but it would re¬ 
quire an equally violent fever of enthusiasm to take 
me up there again. The porch or arched doorway of 
the north transept is extensively sculptured with 
figures, representing the nativity of our Lord, and of 
persons possessed by the evil spirit—that of the south 
with traits of some saint, I believe, St. Stephen. A 
gallery, supported by columns and surmounted by an 
entablature, extends the entire length of the facade or 
front, between the towers. The interior of this church 
is, I must think, less imposing than the exterior, al¬ 
though its historic associations overpower us as we 
enter. Sunday as it was, and a crowd assembled for 
worship, still, with every wish that it were otherwise, 
I found it cold, cheerless, and comfortless. The lm- 
6 * • 


130 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


mense sanctuary was occupied by canons of the 
church and “ Enfans du Chceur.” The strong voices 
of the former, blending with the musical voices of the 
latter, produced a pleasing effect. The grand altar is 
of white Parian marble, ornamented with light Ionic 
columns. Solemn high mass going on ; but I am free 
to own that many of the ceremonies were entirely 
new, nay, even incomprehensible, to me. The lead¬ 
ing features at the altar during the holy sacrifice were 
familiar, but to a stranger there is somethiug incom¬ 
prehensible in the long processions before the “ As- 
perges,” the walking up and down of the chanters 
during the “ Gloria,” the “ Credo,” “ Sanctus,” and 
many other things. When will the day come when 
there will be no “ Parisian Ritual,” no “ Lyonese 
Ritual,” or any other local ritual; but in old France> 
the eldest daughter of the Church, as she is and ever 
has been so intimately united in faith with her old 
mother Rome, there will be no other than the “ Ro¬ 
man Ritual ? ” This may seem gratuitous on the part 
of a stranger, but it is the honest wish of one who 
loves France much, but Rome more. Unity of disci¬ 
pline, so little less than essential to unity of faith, is 
dawning on the country of St. Louis—may it dawn 
brighter and stronger until the perfect fulfilment of 
what all desire! I cannot say I was pleased with the 
music. This argues doubtless want of taste in me; 
but I thought I had often heard better chanting. Af¬ 
ter divine service I remained to study the church. 
The beadle was dressed in full uniform. At first in 
Havre I took these worthies for officers or generals. 
Bless me, thought I, how many officers ! and how 


THE CHAPELS. 


131 


edifying in them thus to act the part of sextons ! I 
soon found they were but sextons. The church con¬ 
sists interiorly of a nave, divided by rows of columns 
into two side-aisles. These columns are lofty, sixty- 
one each side, and a gallery, which to me seemed half 
concealed, runs nearly, if not entirely, round each 
side-nave. Surely these old galleries can seldom be 
filled. The roof is 102 feet from the marble-paved 
floor. A high iron railing separates the sanctuary or 
choir from the body of the church. Although it is a 
beautiful piece of work, it was repugnant to my feel¬ 
ings ; for, like all others I had seen of its kind and 
use, it seemed not only to shut us out from a full view 
of the inner sanctuary, but to be as a barrier between 
the things which are of God and the people who stand 
in need of them. This, I own, may be fastidious in 
me ; but, at the expense of being thought Puritanical 
in my notions, give me the free open space, the sim¬ 
ple railing of our churches in America. Such they 
are in Rome also. The choir floor is richly paved 
with marble. Twenty-six stalls or seats surround it, 
and the grand altar beneath a canopy is reached by 
marble steps. Behind this altar is a large marble 
group, representing the descent from the cross: this 
is usually called the vow of Louis XIII. It is a su¬ 
perb production, consisting of four life-sized figures. 
The B. Virgin is represented seated, her eyes raised 
to heaven, the head of our Saviour resting upon her 
knees, an angel supporting the body of the dead 
Christ, and another holding the crown of thorns. 
Among the twenty-four side chapels is one in honor 
of St. Thomas of Canterbury. At each end of the 


132 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


transept, and in front and rear of the church, is a no¬ 
ble rosette stained-glass window, each 36 feet in diam¬ 
eter. It is indeed a sombre, awe-inspiring edifice. 
In spite of all my efforts, I could not like it, and the 
impressions it left on my mind are as fresh to-day as 
at the moment when, leaving its doors, I turned to 
take another look. And the same at each succeeding 
visit. Yet I could not like the cathedral. I knew its 
sad history of the revolutionary times, a history which 
should make every scoffer at religion blush. The wild 
bacchanalian scenes here enacted when, during the 
French revolution, men maddened by fury and lost to 
every sense of shame, here, on the main altar, en¬ 
throned a degraded woman as the goddess of reason, 
and offered incense to her as to a divinity. I had 
read that a star on the marble pavement indicated the 
spot on which Napoleon I. stood when he placed the 
imperial crown, first on his own head and then on that 
of his Empress Josephine, in presence of Pius VII. 
in 1801. I looked for the spot but could not find it; 
it is probably within the sanctuary enclosure. Where 
formerly stood the Archiepiscopal palace, now stands 
the graceful fountain of Notre Dame. In a lofty 
pointed niche formed by columns resting on a founda¬ 
tion about 18 feet high, is a very pretty statue of the 
Blessed Virgin. The niche is surmounted by a simple 
Gothic steeple, presenting a very pleasing appear¬ 
ance, harmonizing admirably with the cathedral. It 
may be remembered that in one of the sudden out¬ 
bursts of popular fury, as incomprehensible as they 
are frequent in Paris, the residence of the Archbishop 
was sacked and destroyed, in 1831, on the occasion of 


PLACE DE L ARCHVEQUE. 


133 


the funeral services in the Church of “ St. Germain 
l’Auxerrois ” for the assassinated Duke of Berry. The 
square on which the fountain now stands is called the 
a Place de rArcheveque.” It is behind the cathe¬ 
dral, handsomely laid out in rows of trees, and sur¬ 
rounded by an iron railing. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


Sunday in Paris—Square and Church of St. Sulpice—Vespers in St. Sul- 
pice—A morning View from Pont Royal—Palais de Luxembourg—Gar¬ 
dens of the Palais de Luxembourg—Statue of Marshal Ney—Imperial 
observatory—Church of Val de Grace—Pantheon or Church of St. Ge¬ 
nevieve—Ascent to the dome—View from the dome—Visit to vaults— 
Tombs of Mirabeau—Of Voltaire—Of Rousseau—Reflections at their 
tombs—Interior and paintings of Pantheon—Anecdote of Voltaire and 
Rousseau—Church of St. Etienne du Mont. 


F EELING but little inclination for dinner, and anx¬ 
ious to see all I could, I crossed tlie bridge lead¬ 
ing to the other side of the Seine, continued up le Rue 
St. Jacques to Rue des Mathurins, to le Rue de l’Ecole 
de Medicine, across the Carre de l’Odeon to the 
Church of St. Sulpice, facing the beautiful Place of 
the same name. Here I arrived in time for Vespers. 
Crossing the bridge from the island, I turned to take 
a view of the scene before me ; and, as by the aid of 
my map I threaded the crooked streets, I was sur¬ 
prised to witness such an almost total disregard of 
Sunday. Shops and stores were open, carts and drays 
were loading and unloading; even masons and car- 


ST. SULPICE. 


135 


penters were at work! Surely there must be no Sun¬ 
day for many thousands in Paris, or they do not know 
when Sunday comes ! I found no difference between 
Saturday and to-day. Nothing strikes an American 
more forcibly than this; and to me it seems an enig¬ 
ma, that, where the conveniences of church are so 
great as in Paris, there should be so little external re¬ 
gard for the sanctity of the Lord’s day. Such is the 
fact; and while charity teaches us to deal favorably 
with the motives, surely a sense of right and wrong 
justifies us in condemning so evident a violation of 
God’s holy ordinance. 

Before attempting a description of the Church of 
St. Sulpice, let us look around and gaze for a few mo¬ 
ments on the square, its splendid fountain, public build¬ 
ings, and animated scene. The “ Place St. Sulpice ” 
is situated on the southern side of the Seine, and is 
beautified by trees and walks. In the centre, a large 
monumental fountain rises in grand proportions. It 
is built of stone, and consists of three basins, one above 
the other, in form of a pyramid, and is surmounted 
by a quadrangular column or pavilion, and by a 
dome. At each of the four angles formed by the first 
or largest basin is a couchant lion; and at each corre¬ 
sponding angle of the upper one is a large stone vase, 
from which the water flows gracefully into the basin 
beneath. In deep niches formed in the sides of the 
main shaft, are life-sized statues of Bossuet, Fenelon, 
Massillon, and Flechier. This fountain is among the 
grandest in Paris. On the south side of the Place 
stands the immense Seminary of St. Sulpice, the pa¬ 
rent-house of the Sulpicians in Canada and Baltimore. 


136 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


On the west is a public building used as barracks for 
soldiers. The exterior of the church is grand and im¬ 
posing. I do not remember having seen a similar 
facade, except perhaps that of “ Sta. Maria in Yia 
Cata,” opposite the church and convent of St. Mar¬ 
cel on the Corso in Rome, and this even is far infe¬ 
rior to St. Sulpice. By a flight of stone steps we 
reach the platform of the porch. Twelve Grecian 
Doric columns, each 42 feet high, support a stone’ en¬ 
tablature beautifully ornamented, and thirteen feet 
deep. Over this is a gallery supported by a corre¬ 
sponding number of Ionic columns. Two lofty tow¬ 
ers, said to be about ten feet higher than those of 
Notre Dame, terminate the front. They are of a 
mixed style, partly octagon, partly circular, and in 
part square. The corner-stone of this edifice was laid 
by Anne of Austria, mother of Louis XIV., in 1646. 
The interior is decidedly grand. The church is built 
in the form of a Latin cross, the altar standing about 
midway between the nave and the choir, which is in 
the upper end of the cross. In the rear of the altar 
are the stalls or seats for the clergy. This main altar 
is beautifully surrounded by statues of the twelve apos¬ 
tles. In the chapel of the Blessed Virgin, behind the 
choir, stands a lovely statue, in white Parian marble, 
of the sinless mother, over a richly ornamented altar. 
Light is admitted by concealed windows from above ; 
and, as the soft, mellow rays fall upon the statue, they 
seem to light it up with unearthly majesty. I was 
perfectly ecstasied, and stood gazing on altar, shrine, 
and statue, unable to suppress my tears. Who can 
be there, and not almost realize a foretaste of that 


PONT ROYAL. 


137 


sweet home where “ no snn nor moon in borrowed 
light” revolved the hours. I noticed some exquisite 
paintings around the church and chapel. At the front 
entrance are two immense shells, now used as holy 
water basins. They were originally given to Francis 
the First by the Republic of Venice. How they 
came here I know not. What supports the pulpit I 
could not discover. It is a curious affair. Vespers 
were chanted with solemnity; and I could almost 
fancy myself once again in the Chapel of St. Mary’s 
in Baltimore. Indeed that sweet little chapel was 
modelled after this in part. It was late when I left 
the Seminary, whither I had gone at the close of 
“Vespers.” Fatigued and hungry, I returned to 
J. J. Rousseau, supped and retired. If my reader 
will come with me to the “ Pont Royal,” on an early 
walk, his eyes will be greeted by as lovely and 
exciting a view as Europe can produce. We are 
on our way to the “Palais du Luxembourg,” “Pan¬ 
theon,” “ Sorbonne,” and “ St. Etienne du Mont.” 
This bridge leads from the Tuileries to the Quais 
Voltaire and D’Orsay, and was erected in 1684 by 
a Dominican, “ Brother Romain.” It has changed 
its name since then under the different dynasties in 
turn ruling France. As we are crossing, let us tarry 
a moment to look around us. The silvery Seine 
flows beneath us as calm and smoothly as if its 
waters had never been dyed with the blood of untold 
thousands, from Montereau to Paris and to Havre. 
Towards the last we have the Pont du Carrousel, the 
Pont des Arts, and the Pont Heuf, one of the most 
listoric of the twenty-nine bridges crossing the Seine, 


138 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


always peopled with passengers, its broad parapets, 
its statue of Henry IV., and the spot on which “ Mor- 
lay,” Grand Master of the Knights Templar, was 
publicly burned to death in 1304. The noble “ Island 
of the City,” with the proud dome of the “ Palais de 
Justice,” the lofty spires of the “ Sainte Chapel,” 
once the dungeon of the lovely and unfortunate Marie 
Antoinette, of Madame Elizabeth, and the Royal 
Dauphin; then a chapel, then again a dungeon, and 
now again a chapel! the dark frowning prison of the 
“ Conciergerie,” with the bold towers and command¬ 
ing front of “ Notre Dame,” and the Seine, which, 
after flowing past the “ Isles de St. Louis ” and “ La 
Cite in two channels, here unites and rolls majesti¬ 
cally on, covered by numerous steamboats, crafts, 
and floating houses for bathing, clothes-washing, and 
places of amusement. Turning to the north, the pal¬ 
aces of the Louvre and Tuileries, and the wide space, 
nearly two miles long, for the garden of the Tuileries, 
with its rows of limes, chestnut, linden, and elm trees. 
On the south, the splendid quais D’Orsay and Vol¬ 
taire, with their ever-varying scenes, and on the west 
an endless variety of spires, domes, and monuments ; 
bright skies above; a clear, bracing atmosphere ; and 
on the bridge, even thus early, old blind men, grind¬ 
ing music out of hand-organs, antiquated accordeons, 
cracked flutes, and jingling triangles; miserable spe¬ 
cimens of antiquity, in the shape of old women, sing¬ 
ing their nasal twangs, or offering for a sous to black 
your boots, take the grease from your coat, or sell you 
a kitten, terrier, or pointer—surely, kind reader, you 


PALAIS DE LUXEMBOURG. 


139 


mnst have the bines incurably, if such a scene, rich, 
varied, and natural, fail to interest yon! Let ns 
proceed to the Palais de Luxembourg, so called from 
the Duke of Luxembourg, who here resided about the 
year 1560. It has been successively a palace for 
“ Marie de Medicis,” widow of Henry IY.—for 
“ Gaston d'Orleans and his grand-daughter—the un¬ 
fortunate u Madame du Barri ”—a prison under the 
republic—Hall of Meeting for the Directory, the 
Consular offices, the Senators, the House of Peers— 
and, in our own days, for the delegates of the working 
classes in 1SL3, under the presidency of Louis Blanc. 
At present it is the residence of the Chief of the Im¬ 
perial Legation. Where but in Paris could a building 
be appropriated to so many different purposes in so 
comparatively short a time ? Like most of the other 
palaces in Paris, it has its tales of happiness, and 
misery—of blood, and deeds of darkness. Its exterior 
is very pretty—each extremity of the front is adorned 
with a tower, from which rises a graceful dome. Its 
interior is interesting from the many and varied 
scenes here enacted since the erection of the present 
building in 1615. The Senate holds its sessions here. 
The seats of the Peers or Senators are arranged pretty 
much as in our own Senate Chamber in Washington, 
save that there is a gradual rising from the centre to 
the outer seats. In front of the president’s chair is 
the “tribune,” or elevated desk, from which the 
speakers address the auditory. Adjoining and around 
the palace is the garden, one of the most lovely 
and tastefully designed in Paris. There are numerous 
fountains, flower gardens, groves or shady walks with- 


140 


MY TEIP TO FRANCE. 


in the walls ; and groups of students, children, and 
loiterers like myself, may be nearly always met here, 
enjoying the refreshing breezes, redolent with odors 
of orange and acacia trees. Among the statues which 
adorn this spot are many of the heroines and queens 
of France; “ Joan of Arc,” who has her rosary by her 
side, helmet and casque at her feet, and hand uplifted, 
as if in supplication ; also Mary Stuart: passing down 
the grand avenue into that of the observatory, is the 
statue of the chivalrous Marshal Ney, who forty years 
ago was here ingloriously and unjustly shot as a 
traitor, after having fought 200 battles for his country. 
Continuing along, we pass the imperial observatory. 
It is a singular-looking building, entirely unsuited to 
its original design, as experience proved; and com¬ 
pletely fire-proof, neither wood nor iron being used 
in its construction. By special permission I was al¬ 
lowed to visit the hall on the second floor, in which, 
by means of two ingenious instruments, the amount 
of rain which falls during the year in the city is as¬ 
certained. Leaving the observatory behind us, we 
pass through the rue Cassini, and that of St. Jacques, 
and soon the lofty dome of the church and military 
hospital of “ Val de Grace ” rises before iis. The 
building, used since the reign of Napoleon I., was 
originally an abbey for Benedictine nuns; Ann of 
Austria, or rather Louis XIV., her son, laid the foun¬ 
dation of this edifice, while he was yet a child, in fulfil¬ 
ment of a vow by his royal mother. In the rear of 
the main altar are the private chapels, in which the 
Sisters,, attendant on the sick, hear mass. Within 
this church lie the remains of Henriette, daughter of 


ST. GENEVIEVE. 


141 


Henry IY., and wife of Charles I. Continuing our 
ramble down Rue St. Jacques, we cross la Rue Sufflot, 
and on the right stands the majestic Pantheon, now 
the church of St. Genevieve. This majestic temple 
was commenced in 1767 under Louis XY., on the 
ruins of an ancient church, erected in honor of the 
virgin patroness of Paris, St. Genevieve, by the pious 
consort of Clovis, first king of the Franks. It is 
built in the form of a Greek cross, the four arms of 
which are equal. The grand entrance on the west 
is reached by a flight of marble steps, leading to the 
magnificent portico, 121 feet long, and 22 feet high, 
with 22 fluted Corinthian columns, 59 feet high, and 
5 feet 6 inches in diameter. This portico strongly 
resembles that of the “ Pantheon ” at Rome, now the 
church of “ Sancta Maria ad Martyres.” The fronton 
or pediment, like most of the modern productions of 
Paris, has undergone many changes. It is curious to 
trace them. At first it was ornamented with a 
luminous cross, with brilliant rays in gold. During 
the revolution in 1791 the cross was expunged, and a 
pagan “ has relief” took its place ; when the “Assem¬ 
bly ” decreed that this temple should be used as a 
“ Pantheon,” in which her infidel gods should be 
adored after death. Such gods as such monsters 
loved to worship! Mirabeau, the sensualist—Yol- 
taire, the incarnation of impurity—Rousseau, the im¬ 
pious! What a farce to intermingle such contrasts 
as Fenelon and Malesherbes! At the restoration 
under Louis XYIII. the cross was replaced, and again 
banished during the revolution of 1830, when the has 
relief, half pagan and half mongrel Christianity, sup- 


142 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


planted tlie emblem of faith.—It is an allegory; 
France in the centre between Genius and Science. 
In this motley group of soldiers, divines, statesmen, 
and infidels, we recognize Napoleon I., La Tour, 
Malesherbes, the faithful friend of Louis XVI., Fene- 
lon, Voltaire, Rousseau, Mirabeau, La Fayette, and 
numerous others. "What a parody on the ever-chang¬ 
ing spirit of the French ! This allegory is explained 
by an inscription in large gold characters, restored in 
1830 on the frieze of the portico : U A grateful country 
to her great men ”—a fitting motto for a civic hall, 
but ill suited to a temple of religion. When will the 
cross again resume its place on the fronton, or reflect 
the sun r s rising and setting rays from the summit of its 
majestic dome? Louis Napoleon has done much in 
restoring in 1851 this “ Pantheon ” to Christian wor¬ 
ship ; but glorious as the “ Tricolor’ 7 is, a more fitting 
emblem for the House of God would be the sign of 
Faith. The interior, vast and extensive, is singularly 
plain. Indeed, to me, there is little of the Catholic 
Church in the whole edifice. I find pencilled on my 
guide book : “ Correct picture of a splendid pagan 

temple, but no church for me.” So, indeed, I thought 
with others, and so I still think. Above the cross- 
section, and supported by four immense arches, each 
42 feet in diameter, rises a triple dome : first a tower, 
ornamented with sixteen columns with as many win¬ 
dows. A beautiful cupola surmounts this, richly 
adorned with sunken coffers and golden rosettes. The 
summit of this cupola is open, and 30 feet in diameter. 
Above this rises another dome, closed at the top; on 
the sides of this are some splendid paintings by Gross 


THE INTERIOR. 


143 


—tlie apotheosis of St. Genevieve. Four kings of 
France are in the group, each representing an era in 
the history of the country. Clovis, Charlemagne, St. 
Louis, and Louis XVIII. We also see the luxurious 
Louis XIV., the virtuous and martyred Louis XVI., 
with the equally virtuous sharer of his crown and fate, 
Marie Antoinette, with the King’s sister, Madame 
.Elizabeth—worthy companion of their sufferings and 
martyrdom—also the Duchess of Angouleme, daugh¬ 
ter of Louis XVI. This painting is immense, cover¬ 
ing upwards of 3000 square yards. The effect, at a 
certain distance, is grand. The virgin saint descends 
from the clouds, her countenance beaming with inex¬ 
pressible sweetness, and smiling on the group beneath. 
Would that the actions of some there represented, con¬ 
firmed the fiction of the artist! It is not ours to 
judge. “ The evil man does, lives after him; the good is 
oft interred with the bones.” Never did poet or 
speaker utter truer worfls. A singularly beautiful 
effect is here produced by the light of windows which 
are invisible from the pavement of the church. As, 
however, we are in this second dome, we readily per¬ 
ceive how it is effected. It is by means of light ad¬ 
mitted between the first and second cupolas. A third 
dome rises above this, which in turn is surmounted 
by a lantern, as it is called. The top of the main 
cupola is 268 feet from the floor. I ascended by a 
flight of 475 steps, and right glad was 1 when it was 
over ! Some few of us ventured to the top of the third 
dome, which is 368 feet high, and from which we en¬ 
joyed a splendid view of this world in miniature. 
Had we ventured even higher, and mounted to the 


144 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


Lantern, 450 feet high, which may be done with safety, 
it would have been more striking perhaps; but fatigued 
as I was, and no provision being made for a relay of 
legs, I was contented with the view from my then 
present altitude. It was enchanting : the atmosphere 
was clear: the almost countless palaces, the Louvre, 
Tuileries, Palais Royal, Luxembourg, Hotel des In- 
valides, Champs Elysees, Hotre Dame, St. Sulpice, 
Colonne Yen dome, La Madeleine, Colonne de Juliet, 
and its glittering figure of Victory;—the distant hills, 
the frowning towers of the fortress of Vincennes in 
the blue distance, the heights of Montmartre, the 
beautiful windings of the Seine, until lost in Charen- 
don and St. Maude ;—such is the sublime panorama 
spread out before me, as from my lofty position, 
368 feet above the “ rest of mankind,” in the world 
of Paris, I gazed in admiration. The interior of 
Genevieve is divided in three of its naves by a double 
row of fluted Corinthian columns, of which there are 
above 130, each about 40 feet high. On the walls 
are the names of those who fell in the revolution of 
1830. The altar in honor of the patroness is in the 
south transept; it is beautiful, and the walls, like 
those of the chapel of the B. Virgin in the north 
transept, are Elaborately frescoed with copies of An¬ 
gelo’s and Raphael’s cartoons in the Vatican in Rome. 
There are four noble paintings on the spandrils or 
corners, formed by the arches above the columns. 
They are France, Glory embracing Hapol eon, Justice, 
and Death. Let us now follow our loquacious guide 
into the vaults beneath this vast temple. This doughty 
“ Ship,” as he is called, armed with his staff of office, 


MIRABEAU. 


145 


his bunch of keys, and bearing that same old cocked 
hat and flowing sash, marshals us “ a la militaire,” in 
solid column, and addresses us to this effect: “ Mes¬ 
sieurs ! we are about to descend to the world beneath. 
The world above and around us is grand, but the 
world beneath is interesting. (?) You will see the 
tombs of some among the most illustrious men of 
France—you will not be allowed to come up until all 
is finished. (! ) Messieurs! give me each four sous! 
Allons ! ” After the order of the day thus given, we 
form Indian file—the huge doors grate on their 
hinges, and we descend by a long and winding stone 
stairway, as dark as Erebus, to the “ world below ” 
which is so “ interesting ! ” Once down, we find it 
tolerably well lighted and scrupulously clean. We 
pass many tombs of distinguished personages, until 
we reach the now empty one where once the impious 
Mirabeau reposed. The false god he worshipped, 
abandoned his name and memory after death, as the 
true God whom he despised had long before. He had 
been amongst the earliest instigators of the French 
revolution, he had guided popular opinion, and been 
the idol of the people—now their self-constituted 
pleader, and again the vacillating defender of his 
sovereign ; he, whose last moments were those of a 
sensualist, and who,, in the language of the infidel 
Michelet, “ ordered his servants to shave and dress 
him that he might die perfumed and crowned with 
flowers; lulled into death by soft music; and thus go 
to meet the sun then shining into his room; which he 
impiously called “ if not God, at least his cousin-ger¬ 
man ! ”—he whose funeral was said to have been the 
7 


146 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


largest the world had seen—preceded by that political 
chameleon La Fayette, the National Assembly, the 
Jacobin Clubs, first proceeding to St. Eustache which 
was desecrated by the impious rite,—he, over whose 
coffin 20,000 National Guards at once fired a salute, 
shattering to atoms the numerous windows of the 
church; and who was then deposited in 1791 by torch¬ 
light within this very vault at which I am now stand-. 
ing ; but who, in three short years, was banished from 
his resting-place by the same fickle crowd and faith¬ 
less Assembly ! "Where now sleeps Mirabeau ? If 
some medical student has not long since strung to¬ 
gether his skeleton bones, they are mouldering in the 
burial-ground of Clamart, where executed criminals 
are thrown, unhonored in death, as they were unholy 
in life! We pass on to the tombs of Voltaire and 
Kousseau, names which should bring a blush to every 
cheek, as they were the fatal cause for every woe 
which fifteen years later deluged France in blood. 
Why sleep they here, polluting even with their moul¬ 
dering remains the house of God! Why, ah ! why 
is it that the “ evil man does lives after him ” to cor¬ 
rupt the young, misguide the old, and ruin so many 
thousands ! Who that knows the infamous career of 
Yoltaire, and the equally filthy character of Kousseau, 
can tolerate their names, much less follow their 
maxims ? Yoltaire, the corrupter of youth, who, while 
yet a student in the Jesuit College in Paris, gave sad 
evidence of his future career. The ungrateful son, 
the disloyal subject, before his 31st year exiled for his 
crimes from his father’s and employer’s house, flying 
to Holland, publicly whipped by a play-actor, and 


VOLTAIRE. 


147 


severely chastised by an officer; imprisoned in the 
Bastile, again exiled from Paris, soundly trounced 
by a nobleman’s servants for insults offered to their 
employer, again confined to the Bastile, exiled from 
Paris for dishonesty and turbulence. See him now in 
England, herding with the depraved and low, and 
even swindling his publishers out of their dues when 
they published perhaps his least objectionable work 
“ La Henriade ,” and again smarting under corporal 
punishment inflicted on him, pitifully suing to return 
to France, and soon abusing the permission given, 
soon again forced to quit the Capital for his abuse, 
not only of religion but of government. From such 
early youth and manhood what might be expected? 
Ilis old age was but a fitting close to such a gloomy 
morning. A continued series of beastly excesses, im¬ 
piety, truckling to the passions of the rich, and a death 
perhaps the most frightful ever witnessed. See how 
this gray-headed libertine is checked in his career by 
“ Him, the holy one,” whom in his mad folly Yoltaire 
more than fifty years had vainly tried to crush. 
“Ecrasez l’infame.” From his residence in Ferney, 
near Geneva, he had long hurled his railleries against 
religion with infernal cunning, and wonderful talent; 
he knew too well the secret to interest youth, and 
with a flowing style and brilliant diction he infused 
his fatal principles into the minds of the young and 
the working classes. By flattering the pride of 
opinion we all unfortunately possess, and by sophis¬ 
try, of which he was master, he gained over many of 
the highest classes of life.—Death advances. See now 
how the blasphemer shrinks aghast, the impious phi- 


148 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


losopher belies bis infidel professions! 84 years had 
rolled over his head, when a sudden vomiting of blood 
prostrates him. He cries out for a priest! He who 
had advocated the massacre of all those who wore the 
livery of the sanctuary, and had passed a long life in 
ribald abuse of all God’s holy service, now calls on God 
for mercy, and on the priests for comfort! The ven¬ 
erable Abbe Gauthier, vicar of the church of St. 
Sulpice, flies to his bed-side. He seeks to animate 
the death-stricken wretch to hope and trust in God. 
Yoltaire sees eternity before him. Already he can 
see the dreadful abyss awaiting him, and he feels that 
the impious tenets of infidelity cannot sustain his sink¬ 
ing soul. He makes his confession to the priest of God, 
and placed in his hands an authenticated retraction 
of his infidelity. He declared that he wished to die 
in the bosom of the holy Catholic church, and ear¬ 
nestly implored to be readmitted to the sacraments 
which he had received in childhood, and more than 
once desecrated by sacrilegious hypocrisy, before he 
threw off all restraint. Such w T as the wish of Yol¬ 
taire ; but, frightful thought! what was the dispensa¬ 
tion of Heaven so long outraged ? When the Abbe 
Gauthier again sought admission to his room, all en¬ 
trance was refused. The dying man’s friends, as they 
styled themselves, repulsed the priest, for they feared 
the reaction had the higli-priest of their wicked 
system died a Christian. In vain the dying man 
begged for the priest; he knew not that his confessor 
had tried and tried in vain to get admission to him. 
“ Abandoned by God and man ! ” was his frequent ex¬ 
clamation. All the horrors of despair now seized his 


ROUSSEAU. 


149 


soul; he blasphemes again the God on whom he had 
so lately called, that great Being who, though the 
Father of all, will not be mocked with impunity ! 
his eyes stare wildly, and he screams in horror, as he 
already seems to feel the tortures of the reprobate; he 
trembles, and restlessly throws himself about upon his 
bed, he bites his tongue, he tears his flesh, and dies, 
literally eating his own excrement. Thus died Vol¬ 
taire, the impious reviler of the Christian religion, 
and as the dread visions of eternity burst upon his 
soul, his last shriek was the cry of despair ! And here 
lies that rotten carcass, that hateful thing, called the 
skeleton of Voltaire ! And whose tomb is this before 
which we stop as our guide goes on to explain ? It is 
the impious Rousseau’s, the hypocrite, the cynic, and 
debauched libertine ; now a Protestant, again a Cath¬ 
olic, and always a dishonest infidel. Like his neigh¬ 
bor Voltaire, “ all things in turn and nothing long ; ” 
driven from place to place for his dishonesty, now in 
the seminary and shortly afterwards the travelling com¬ 
panion of an impostor, calling himself a Greek Bishop, 
making collections for the Holy Sepulchre ! Passing 
twenty-five years in open profligacy, hunted from 
France for his inflammatory appeals to the passions of 
the people, like his prototype seeking refuge in Eng¬ 
land, to corrupt there by his specious writings, as he 
had polluted the atmosphere of France; the unnatural 
parent who abandoned his own children to the found¬ 
ling hospital, and ended his life by the double crime 
of poison and the pistol in 1778. Then honored by 
the wild enthusiasts of the revolution, like the arch in¬ 
fidel Voltaire, with a public funeral procession, and a 


150 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


tomb in the “ Pantheon ! ” And here he lies. These 
are the two apostles of infidelity whom so many ad¬ 
mire! whose writings have fanned all France into a 
flame, and whose fatal results are still felt! This is 
the fruit of their philosophy ! These are the enemies 
for ever battling against the church of God! Who 
would acknowledge their leadership, or wish to re¬ 
semble them ? How my blood curdled as I thought 
of the wreck of innocence, of virtue, and religion, 
I had more than once witnessed in my own country 
among the youth of both sexes from the poisonous ef¬ 
fects of these men’s writings. Well does the good 
book say, “ The enemies of the Lord have lied unto 
him , and their time shall he for ever.” I felt sick at 
heart, and I turned in disgust from the spot, for it 
seemed to me I could hear the sighs, and groans, and 
deep curses of perverted sons, ruined daughters, and 
heart-broken parents, the shrieks of untold thousands 
from the scaffold, and the wild howlings of France, 
lashed into fury by these master-spirits of infidelity. 
The same sentiment seemed to pervade all our com¬ 
panions, and we returned to the body of the church. 
On taking a parting view I noticed several large holes 
in one or two of the paintings on the north and south 
walls. I learned they were made by the balls of the 
artillery, who fired on the insurgents in 1830. They 
had taken a strong position in this church, and much 
injury was done the brazen doors, the windows and 
walls, before they could be dislodged. These injuries 
have been repaired, with the exception of the paint¬ 
ings. As we left St. Genevieve I could but smile at 
an anecdote, related by one of the party. It is well 


VOLTAIRE AND ROUSSEAU. 


151 


known that Voltaire and Rousseau were jealous of 
each other, and agreed in nothing except in hitter 
animosity to Christianity. It is both ludicrous and 
painful to read their characters, each depicted by the 
other. On one occasion Voltaire was visited by 
Rousseau, but not finding him at home, he wrote with 
chalk on the door “ rascal .” The following day Vol¬ 
taire, who was in a very bad humor, met him in the 
street, and apologized for not having been at home, 
but added, “I found your name on my door ! ” Both 
were cowards, as such wretches always are. Rousseau, 
smarting under the remark, walked on, and as he 
passed, jostled against the other, saying: “I never 
get out of the way for fools or puppies.” Voltaire 
stepped aside, and bowing, replied : “ I always do.” 
Leaving the “ Pantheon ” on the right, we reach the 
church of St. Etienne du Mont on Rue de la Montagne 
St. Genevieve. It was founded in 1223, is mixed Gothic 
in style, and has some splendid paintings, stained 
windows, and other objects of interest. The jube or 
arch over the sanctuary is a splendid affair. Over 
the choir is a narrow gallery, to which two spiral 
stairways lead. The pulpit is richly ornamented, and 
is supported by Samson, who kneels on a dead lion. 
Here I saw, as in Havre, the custom of burning 
tapers before the shrine of the “ Virgin Mother,” or 
the patron saint. True, I had seen it in many 
churches, but in none did it strike me so forcibly as 
in these two. In a sweet little chapel, enclosed by a 
railing, is the tomb of St. Genevieve, the shepherd 
girl, and the patroness of Paris; before the tomb 
numerous wax tapers were burning, the votive offer- 


152 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


ings of the poor, the rich, the feeble, and the strong. 
Mothers knelt there in trusting faith, and fathers came 
to breathe a prayer for loved ones ; pious young per¬ 
sons were kneeling in devotion, silent and unmindful 
of the world around them—some for their children, 
others for parents and relatives, all for grace and 
strength and God’s protection. So knelt and prayed 
the pious group around St. Genevieve’s shrine; and 
in testimony of their faith each placed his lighted 
taper on the shrine of the Shepherdess Saint. The 
view brought tears to my eyes. Absent ones came 
to mind ; I thought of home, of friends, of loved and 
loving ones far away ; almost involuntarily I ap¬ 
proached the little stand on which the wax candles 
were placed, paid the sou, and lighting my little offer¬ 
ing, placed it on the tomb, and knelt to ask her pray¬ 
ers and intercession for me and mine. Simple and 
sweet devotion ! If the “ immaculate mother” brought 
two doves to the temple in offering, why may not her 
children on earth offer at the shrine of another in 
heaven a testimony of God’s dominion over all, and 
their faith in the communion of saints ? 

This ancient church has derived a melancholy 
interest from the assassination of the Archbishop of 
Paris, by an unfortunate priest, named Verges, on 
Saturday, January 3d, 1857. The sad details are 
fresh in the minds of all, and humanity shudders at 
the crime. Never before in France, even amid the 
wildest horrors of the revolution, was so atrocious a 
deed perpetrated. It is, however, consoling to find 
that the foul murder meets with universal execration. 
Peace to the good Archbishop’s soul—God’s mercy on 
the wretched Verges! 




CHAPTER XIY. 


University ot Sorbonne—Tomb of Cardinal Richelieu—Hotel de Cluny and 
Palais des Thermes—Chamber of the White Queen—Life a Voyage— 
Chapelle Expiatoire—Tombs of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette— 
Meditations among Tombs—Trial, Condemnation and Execution of 
Louis XVI.—Trial, Condemnation and Execution of Marie Antoinette— 
Church of La Madeleine—Danger of using Eye-glass—Place de la Con¬ 
corde—Guillotine in Paris—Charlotte Corday assassinates Marat— 
Her Trial and Execution—Trial and Execution of Philip Egalite, Duke 
of Orleans—Execution of Girondists—Execution of Madame Roland— 
Execution of Danton and Des Moulins—Horrors of French Revolution. 

T HE University of Sorbonne was the next place 
visited. This building or series of buildings stands 
in the place of the same name. It was founded by Dr. 
Sorbonne, confessor to St. Louis in the 13th century. 
In gratitude to his old Alma Mater, Cardinal Riche¬ 
lieu, whose tomb is in the church of the college, re¬ 
stored the old edifice to its original state. The various 
sciences, belles-lettres, philosophy and theology, are 
here taught by professors, supported by government. 
Thirty-three public courses of lectures are here given 
annually, which are attended by students from various 
colleges in the city. The tomb of Cardinal Richelieu is a 
7* 


t 


154 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


curiosity. It is of marble, and consists of a group 
of figures, representing an expiring Christian support¬ 
ed by Eeligion, his arms resting on two angels, and 
Science weeping over him. The whole place bore a 
cold, aspect; and never having been over-friendly to 
the institution from early reading, my impressions 
w r ere not more favorable from this hasty view. Con¬ 
tinuing my way I came soon to the “ Hotel de Cluny,” 
and the “ Palais des Thermes,” one of the most singu¬ 
lar places in Paris—at once a remnant of the Eoman 
empire, and a proof of the many vicissitudes through 
wdiicli French society has passed. Let me here ob¬ 
serve that the term “ Hotel” does not convey in 
France the same idea as with us. It is used indis¬ 
criminately for a palace, a public or town hall, a 
court of justice ; any public edifice, as well as the idea 
conveyed by the term Hotel in America. To begin 
with the Palais des Thermes, or ancient “ Bath,” erect¬ 
ed by Constantius Chlorus under the Eoman Empire, 
and for seven months the residence of the Emperor 
Julian: It is certain that the Emperors Yalentinian, 
Maximus, Gratian, and several of the Eoman Csesars 
made this palace their occasional abode. In the early 
days of the French kingdom it was the residence of 
her monarchs. Of all the ancient splendor of this 
palace of Thermes nothing now remains but the ruined 
walls, which within the last half century have been 
roofed in and cleared of the accumulated filth and 
rubbish of centuries. This museum, for such it has 
been since the praiseworthy efforts of Monsieur Du- 
sommerard rescued the ruins from destruction, con¬ 
tains many objects of interest, boxes or rather sarco- 


THE MUSEUM. 


155 


\ 

phagi, also the spurs and stirrups of Francis I., a 
chess-board which once belonged to St. Louis and to 
Louis XYIH., swords, busts, statues, &c. To me, 
however, the walls of this immense hall were a greater 
curiosity than all the rest; for they are formed of little 
pieces of stone, embodied in mortar about an inch 
thick, and small flat bricks. Other curiosities are 
here preserved, many of them discovered at different 
epochs during the 18th century beneath the cathedral 
of Hotre Dame. Towards the middle of the 14th cen¬ 
tury Peter de Cluny, Abbot, purchased a portion of 
these grounds, and erected the edifice which has since 
borne his name. It is in Gothic style ; the chapel is 
unique in its kind, bold, original, and striking. Since 
its origin this building, like many others in Paris, has 
been appropriated to various purposes; first a monas¬ 
tery and chapel, then a play-house! subsequently the 
residence of the Abbess, and community of the “ nuns 
of Port Royal,” little if any less reputable than the 
residence of the monster Marat of revolutionary celeb¬ 
rity, until finally, for the good of science and the 
peace of society, less than forty years since it fell into 
the hands of Mons. Dusommerard, by whom it was 
converted to its present use. Within a few years it 
became the property of government by purchase. 
In the “ Chamber of the White Queen,” so called 
from the queens of France who bore white as their 
robe of mourning, I was told that the sister of the 
monster Henry YIII. of England, Mary, who was the 
widow of Louis XII. of France, slept. It was 
here also the Scotch monarch James Y. was married 
to the daughter of Francis I. To me it seemed al- 


156 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


most a dream as I listened to the guide, and traced in 
my note-book the most striking events of my visit. 
From the chapel, a perfect bijou in its kind, we de¬ 
scended into the garden which led us to the thermes 
or baths of which I have spoken. Why it is that in 
our guide-book the formality of a ticket or passport 
is prescribed for admission, I know not—I had neither; 
but, when asking admission as an “ American citi¬ 
zen,” I met with free access and most polite atten¬ 
tion. Had I reflected, however, I could have brought 
my passport. The reader may imagine that by this 
time I was somewhat fatigued. So exciting had my 
visit been, and so varied the emotions it had called 
forth, that 1 completely forgot dinner, luncheon, or 
refreshment, until hunger began to knock at the door. 
Evening was gathering on apace, and I was far from 
Jean Jacques Rousseau. 

In my way I passed an eating-house of the lower 
order; there was such a clatter of dishes and oyster 
shells that I stopped for a moment before the crowded 
window to see the sight. Surely if life is a journey, 
as some say, these passengers seemed to be laying in 
food for the entire voyage. 

Early on the following morning, Tuesday, Nov. 27, 
I started again on my “ trip.” I had read so often 
of the sad fate of Louis XVI. and his noble queen 
Marie Antoinette, that I was anxious to see the 
chapel, erected over the spot where their remains were 
deposited. This I found by the aid of my guide-book. 
It is called “ la Cliapelle Expiatoire,” and is situated 
in “la rue d’Anjou St. Ilonore.” At the time of the 
revolution this spot was an orchard attached to the 


GRAVE OF LOUIS XVI. 


157 


cemetery of la Madeleine church. Here the mutilated 
body of the king was buried. Some ten months later 
the lovely and unfortunate Marie Antoinette, sharing 
the fate of her illustrious consort in life, shared also 
his resting-place in death. As a mockery of order 
both human and divine, the remains of the unfortu¬ 
nate monarch, the descendant of sixty kings, were en¬ 
closed in a common box and covered with lime, 
that nothing might remain for future recognition. 
While still less honored, the noble Marie Antoinette 
was refused even a grave and coffin by the French 
nation. As La Martin states, on the common entry 
book of La Madeleine is found the following charge 
against the Commissioners of the poor: “For one 
grave for the widow Capet 7 Francs ! ” This is the 
spot I sought, and all I had read of the kind feelings 
of Louis XYI. towards my own native country, of the 
generous aid in men and money afforded by France, 
came to mind. With saddened feelings, mingled with 
curiosity, I mounted the steps, and entered the long 
avenue of cypress trees lining the pathway to the 
chapel. It is as silent as if far from the busy city. 
The remains of the two illustrious victims were suffer¬ 
ed to repose here until the period of the restoration 
under Louis XVIII., when in 1815 they were trans¬ 
ferred with all due respect to the ancient tomb of the 
monarchs of France, the abbey St. Denis; when it 
was decreed that this funeral pile should be erected 
over the spot, so long their resting-place (from 1793 
to 1815). The building is small and in form of a 
cross, of Doric architecture, and extremely simple. 
Facing the entrance stands the altar, at which holy 


158 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


mass is offered every Sunday and Feastday. It is of 
white marble and plain. On the right of the altar, 
at the cross section, stands a white marble statue of 
Louis XYI. in royal costume, an angel by his side 
pointing to heaven. On the front of the pedestal, on 
which these figures stand, the king’s last will is en¬ 
graved. Opposite is the statue of Marie Antoinette, 
supported by an angel. On the pedestal I read por¬ 
tions of the touching letter written in the prison of 
the Conciergerie the day before her execution to her 
sister-in-law, Madame Elizabeth, simple, expressive, 
dignified. The noble “Swiss guards” who fell in 
defence of their sovereign at the Tuileries on the 
10th of August 1792, are buried in the court before 
the chapel. What with the isolated position of the 
chapel,- its sad associations, and the gloom reflected 
from its long rows of cypress trees, I felt inexpressibly 
sad. Descending to the subterranean chapel, I stood 
before the Cenotaph of Louis and his queen. The 
good old dame who acted as custode, kindly handed 
me a chair, and I passed an hour in that still solemn 
place, reflecting on the outrages heaped on the vir¬ 
tuous couple who once lay buried here. What scenes 
of blood, of terror and of death t And this was the 
reward they made you. This the honor they bestow¬ 
ed on you, son of St. Louis! This your fate, Marie 
Antoinette, worthy descendant of Ann of Austria! 
Again in imagination did I hear the wild savage cries 
of Robespierre, of Danton, of Mirabeau, of Marat, St. 
Just, and, oh ! “unkindest cut of all,” the roue Duke 
of Orleans, Philip Egalite, the king’s own nephew, 
demanding the blood of the monarch ! Again did I 


DEATH OF LOUIS. 


159 


see the royal pair fleeing from an ungrateful people, 
arrested at Yarennes, and brought back amid the 
yells of an infuriated rabble thirsting for blood ; again 
did I see them prisoners'in the temple, the monarch 
refused the commonest necessaries of life, his virtuous 
queen doomed to every species of insult. And now 
the brutal Santerre, on the 7th of November, 1792, 
ordering his sovereign, then a prisoner in the temple, 
to appear at the convention, whose members, though 
devoid of principle, and vulture-like thirsting for his 
blood, were awed to reverence by the noble bearing 
and dignified appearance of their victim. How false 
each charge is proved ! how his bitterest enemies are 
baflled! Again on the 26th December is the king 
dragged before the convention of his murderers, where 
he made that noble remark, so expressive of calm 
dignity and conscious innocence, to his Advocate, De 
Sere, whose defence brought tears to the eyes of many, 
“ I wish justice, not sympathy.” See again the 
butcher Santerre, on the 19th January, announcing the 
decree of death against the king, who listened to it 
with composure. In vain did he plead for three short 
days of respite. One favor was indeed granted him, 
it was to see for the last time his queen and family, 
from whom he had been separated, and to have a con¬ 
fessor of his choice, the Abbe Edgeworth, by birth an 
Irishman, and the pious director of the king’s sister, 
Madame Elizabeth. How mournful was the scene, 
when the illustrious prisoner met with his wife, Marie 
Antoinette, his son, the Dauphine, his daughter, the 
future Duchess of Angouleme, and his sister! With 
an aching heart he embraced them, and was forced 


160 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


away. He saw them no more in this world. Early 
on the following morning the king heard mass, and 
received holy communion in his cell, and as he left 
his prison for the place of execution, he turned to 
take one lingering last look at the prison where his 
family was confined. He mounts the car; through 
gathering thousands, now hushed to silence, and again 
like the roaring billows of the ocean, surging to and 
fro with excitement, he reaches, after two hours, the 
fatal spot on Place Louis XY., now “ Place de la 
Concorde.” The car stops, the victim descends, he 
asks as a last favor that after his death no insult should 
be offered to his confessor. The minions of the law 
approach to bind his hands, from which he shrinks in¬ 
dignantly ; the Abbe reminds him in sobs and tears 
that his divine master was bound like a malefactor; 
when the humble Christian submits, saying to his 
executioners : “ Do what you wish, I will drink the 

chalice to the dregs ! ” He mounts the scaffold, and 
with one word u silence ! ” hushes the noisy clangor 
of trumpets and of horns. “ I die innocent of the 
crimes imputed to me. I forgive my enemies, and 
pray God that the blood they now shed may never be 
visited upon Prance.” At this moment Santerre 
orders the drums to beat, fearing a movement in 
favor of the king. The victim bows his head, and as 
the axe falls : “ Ascend to heaven, son of St. Louis ! ” 
rings out on the air from the lips of the intrepid Abbe 
Edgeworth. So perished on the 21st January, 1793, 
Louis XYI. in the 38th year of his age, a man gifted 
with every quality to adorn a throne, but with none 
to defend it. Had he possessed resolution to arm his 


MARIE ANTOINETTE. 


161 


own hands and those of his friends in support of right 
against wild anarchy, he had not died thus by the 
hands of his subjects. They brought him here, and 
some few months later they brought also here the 
virtuous Marie Antoinette, the sharer of his scaffold, 
as she was the sharer of his virtues. “ Ah, bloodiest 
picture in the book of time ! ” An inoffensive woman, 
a comparative stranger, the idol of a court she adorned 
by her virtues, her beauty, and her talents; welcomed 
to France by the loud plaudits of a people, who 
hailed her coming as the Aurora of a bright day, the 
sharer and promoter of that anxiety ever evinced by 
her illustrious consort for the reign of justice and 
truth in France, idolized by the crowd for that sim¬ 
plicity of manner and urbanity of disposition, for 
which she was so distinguished ; gay, and sometimes 
imperious, if you will, and liable to the charge of in¬ 
fluencing the king to acts which forced him blindly to 
his own ruin ; the representative, if you will, of an 
antiquated rather than the embodiment of a new 
monarchy to suit the times, yet free from the charges 
of wilful wrong against the people; unsullied in her 
morals, sacred in the eyes of society as the worthy 
descendant of an illustrious house, and doubly sacred 
by the titles of mother and unprotected woman—is 
cruelly separated from her two children, and hurried 
to the dungeons of the Conciergerie ; insults and abuse 
are heaped upon her, the ruffian Robespierre con¬ 
demns her to a mock trial by nine of the lowest refuse of 
the Pave, an ordeal more terrible to her than death, 
yet too noble to daunt the fearless courage of her soul; 
refused the consolations of religion from a priest she 


162 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


acknowledged, but forced to listen to the hated words 
of an apostate, oath-bound clergy ; enabled only to 
receive absolution and holy communion from a faith¬ 
ful servant of God, who, at the risk of his own life, 
penetrated disguised to her prison ; conveyed in an 
open wagon from her cell amid the infuriated yells of a 
populace ever fickle, and now visiting on her lone 
head the accumulated -faults of dynasties long since 
past, and drunk with the blood of untold thousands, 
shed, they knew not why—such is Marie Antoinette! 
“Farewell once more, my children,” she exclaims 
on the scaffold, as she turned to the Tuileries and 
her prison, “ I go to rejoin your father ! ” Her head 
is placed on the block, the axe falls, and it rolls upon 
the scaffold ; an impious brute, in form a man, takes 
it by the hair and exhibits it to the multitude ! 

France ! but a few T years since thou didst adopt 
Marie Antoinette as thine own, calling her to the 
throne of St. Louis ! And is-this the fulfilment of thy 
vows ? The place “ Louis XV.,” where now her 
blood is flowing, lately the scene of her royal husband’s 
execution, shall be reddened with the blood of their 
murderers ! And here they brought her on the 16th 
October, 1793, in her 38th year. Gloomy associations 
these, and I feel my heart heavy within me as I trace 
the history of Louis and Antoinette ! 

As we leave this solemn funeral pile, now called 
the “ Gliapel Expiatoire,” we see a slab over the porch 
setting forth the object of its erection. May the 
noble object thus proposed under the restoration, ex¬ 
piate in some measure the horrid crime! - May the 
adorable sacrifice here offered for France, the ex- 


LA MADELEINE. 


163 


ecutioner, and for her royal victims, appease the 
anger of Him who said : “ By me kings reign,” and 
blot out “ the handwriting of the decree,” registered 
in heaven against the persecutors of the church of 
God! 

A few minutes’ walk leads us to the church of La 
Madeleine, in the street of the same name. It stands 
on the side of an ancient chapel, destroyed in 1764 to 
give place to the present gorgeous temple under Louis 
XY. Whatever others may say of La Madeleine, I 
cannot see any characteristic of a Catholic church in 
it, save the altars and some few paintings. It is a 
gorgeous hall, an almost fairy palace, a rich boudoir 
or gilded saloon, if you will, any thing grand, rich, 
imposing, but has no claim to a church in my opinion. 
Nearly always you will here find crowds of visitors, 
—the canons and clergymen attendant on the church 
are edifying; Holy Mass is offered from an early hour 
until noon. The stiff, formal appendage, called “ Le 
Suisse,” with his long staff surmounted with something 
very like a hatchet, is on hand ; and it seemed to me 
a favorite place for marriage ceremonies, for on each 
of my repeated visits the good cure or his vicars were 
uniting in the silken bonds of wedlock some happy 
pair. On one occasion I was curious to witness the 
ceremony, as I observed it differed from ours in 
America. Being blessed with short sight and an eye¬ 
glass, I took my position at what I thought a respect¬ 
ful distance from one of the side altars at which the 
cure was marrying a couple, and with all satisfaction 
imaginable was looking quietly on. I felt a heavy 
hand rather rudely on my shoulder, and turning to 


164 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


seek the cause, there stood “ Le Suisse ” looking dag¬ 
gers at me, and in no very gentle terms reprimanding 
me for my insolence in gazing thus impolitely at the 
clergyman. I saw to expostulate would be vain, so 
assumed ignorance of what he was saying. My ruse 
succeeded; he left me, threatening, however, to turn me 
out of the church, if I used my eye-glass again. Had 
it not been in the house of prayer I could have laugh¬ 
ed heartily, but I soon had reason to laugh outside 
the church; for in a moment of forgetfulness, as it 
was impossible for me to distinguish any object other¬ 
wise, I raised my unfortunate eye-glass, when, to my 
terror, I discerned the stern minister of the law mak¬ 
ing towards me. It is unnecessary to add that I made 
for the door as fast as respect for the place would 
allow me, to save him the trouble of showing the door 
to me or me to the door. I was edified at his strict 
observance of rule ; for I do not remember any other 
breach of decorum, albeit this was most innocently 
perpetrated. The Madeleine, as we have stated, is a 
truly gorgeous marble temple, not unlike the “ Pan¬ 
theon 55 at Athens. The object of Hapoleon I. in 1806 
to make it a temple of glory to the soldiers who fell 
in the Prussian campaigns, explains the splendor of 
this gilded pile. It is of all the churches in Paris the 
greatest curiosity, if we regard only minuteness of 
decoration, and detail in ornaments. Under the 
reign of Louis Philippe the present building was com¬ 
pleted, after numerous delays and no unfrequent 
alterations in its destiny. It stands on an elevation, 
to which 28 marble steps lead, is Greek in style, 328 
feet long, and 138 broad. It is entirely surrounded by 


THE INTERIOR. 


165 


a colonnade of 50 columns each 60 feet high, comprising 
base and capitals. Between each two columns is a niche 
filled with a statue of a saint. The portico fronts on a 
square which may be called the central or rallying point 
of not only the most interesting events of the past cen¬ 
tury of France, but of the present busy metropolis 
of Paris, “ the Place de la Concorde.” It is supported 
by 16 columns. These are surmounted by a tym¬ 
panum, adorned with a bas-relief of the “ last judg¬ 
ment a bold and striking production. The “ sinful 
Mary ” is seen kneeling at the feet of the sovereign 
judge, imploring mercy for the fallen. The blessed 
are on the right; and allegorical figures of Faith, 
Hope, and Charity, support Innocence. To me the 
most striking part of the subject is the sovereign 
Judge, repulsing the reprobate, who are here seen 
under the allegory of the seven capital sins. On the 
right is a body rising from the tomb, on which is seen, 
“Behold the day of salvation!” and in fearful contrast 
is seen on the left, “ Woe to the wicked /” It is truly a 
striking representation, whatever may be its claim to 
artistic riierit. The immense doors are bronze, richly 
ornamented with subjects taken from the Old Testa¬ 
ment ; each door is 33 feet high, and 16£ feet broad. 
The interior consists of a simple nave without aisles, 
and is literally dazzling. The walls, arches, columns, 
with the capitals and bases, are all polished marble, 
gilded or richly painted. The ceiling is divided into 
three domes, which admit the only light. On the 
sides are recesses or side chapels, each containing a 
statue of the saint whose name it bears. The main 
altar is grand beyond expression. A marble group 


166 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


represents the once sinful but now repentant Mary, 
supported by three angels who are conducting her to 
heaven. The pulpit is in itself a curiosity; and, I 
think, like all the rest of the interior of the church, 
overloaded with ornaments. Several rich paintings 
and sculptures are around the interior, representing 
the.principal events in the penitential career of Mary 
Magdalen, and on the ceiling over the high altar is 
the coronation of Napoleon by Pius VII. It would 
be useless to attempt here a description of this master¬ 
piece of execution. It is a museum of sculpture, of 
statuary, and of ornament ; brilliant, dazzling, in a 
word, unique. Its cost is estimated at nearly a mil¬ 
lion dollars! From the Madeleine we pursue our 
course by the “ Rue Royal ” to the “ Place de la Con¬ 
corde.” Here let us pause to contemplate the scene. 
The past with its varied events, its bloody tragedies 
and fearful excitements, its countless thousands crying 
out for blood, and daily satiated with human sacri¬ 
fices! Who could realize it? Now all is gayety, 
splendor, and apparent happiness. It is said, and I 
believe with truth, that nothing in Europe equals a 
walk through the gardens of the “ Tuileries” and the 
“ Champs Elysees.” As we approach, the majestic 
red granite obelisk towers aloft upon its pedestal. Its 
weight is upwards of 246 tons; and monolith, or a 
single stone as it is, it was brought from the temple 
of Thebes (now called Luxor) in Egypt in 1833, and 
raised to its present position in 1836. Truly an an¬ 
cient monument, going back 1550 years before the 
Christian era! It is covered with inscriptions, and 
half a million of francs were voted in 1829 to defray 


PLACE DE CONCORDE. 


167 


the expense of placing it in its present position. A 
splendid fountain adorns each side of the obelisk, 
showering its golden spray far and wide. The lower 
basins are fifty feet in diameter, and are crowned by 
two others w T hich receive the water ever spouting 
from horns held by sea-gods. The place itself is 
adorned with bronze columns, supporting statues, 
while richly ornamented double and single gas lamps 
adorn the square. At the corners are eight towers, 
bearing allegorical figures of the eight principal cities 
of France. This square has been variously called 
“ Place Louis XV.,” before the revolution ; “ Place 
de la Revolution, 55 and under the empire “ Place de la 
Concorde. 55 It was commenced in 1764 to receive the 
statue of Louis XV. which was destroyed in 1792 to 
give place to the fatal guillotine. The classic groups 
of Couston, known as the “ Horses of Marly, 55 most 
exquisite productions in white marble, adorn the 
square. On the east are the immense gardens and 
palace of the Tuileries, with the tricolor flag floating 
from its towers; on the west the “ ChampsElysees 
on the north a row of splendid palaces, now owned 
by private citizens, and on the south are seen the 
noble Seine, the beautiful bridge de la Concorde, the 
Place du Bourbon, in which the Chamber of Deputies 
hold their sessions, and in the distance the glittering 
dome of the “ Hotel des Invalides. 55 The “ Place de 
la Concorde, 55 so conspicuous in the annals of French 
history for its bloody associations, is an irregular 
square 250 strides long by 167 wide. It is at evening 
wdien the rays of a setting sun sport in the spray of 
fountains and among the rich foliage, and are reflected 


168 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


from gilded domes and crosses of temples, churches 
and balls, that one can appreciate the beauties of this 
enchanting spot. Here all that is exciting in the 
scenes of Paris; her' gardens, groves, the gorgeous 
palaces of her emperors and kings, and the proudest 
memorials of her ancient and modern glory, may be 
seen at a glance. Alas ! that the page of her glory 
should be dimmed by the sad events enacted here ! 
How my blood curdled, as I stood on the spot, where 
for fifteen months the guillotine had been, and where 
within less than two years so many thousand human 
victims were immolated by the almost absolute fiat of 
the monster Robespierre ! This now lovely place was 
filled to suffocation with crow T ds of infuriated men and 
women, dancing and screaming in savage frenzy as 
the blood ran in streams from the scaffold into the 
Seine. Here were immolated Louis XVI. and his il¬ 
lustrious queen in presence of a plaster statue of the 
goddess of Liberty. From its original position in the 
Place de Carrousel, that horrid guillotine was first 
brought here for the king’s execution; from this it 
was transferred to the other extremity of Paris, near 
the old side of the Bastile. Again, after four days, 
and after 74 heads had been cut off, it w T as removed 
to the Faubourg St. Antoine, until such was the 
stench from the blood, that sickness and loud mur- 
murings induced its removal to an open space near 
the Barrier du Trone, where in six busy weeks 1403 
heads fell by its axe ; when, like a restless spirit ever 
bringing death in its train, it was again and per¬ 
manently erected here until the fall of Robespierre ; 
and the dawn of civilization after the dark reign of 


CHARLOTTE CORDAY. 


169 


terror. Here it was that the young enthusiast, Char¬ 
lotte Corday, suffered death on the 15th of July, 1793, 
for assassinating the monster Marat two days previous. 
Corday, the victim of a too lively imagination, of the 
infidel works of the day, and of the demon of revenge! 
Who that has read the history of that daring girl, her 
firm resol ve, and self-sacrificing spirit, but could wish 
she had been influenced by Christian motives ! See 
her leaving her home at Caen, and reaching Paris 
after a journey of three and a half days, alone, unpro¬ 
tected, and a stranger, yet with a smouldering volcano 
in her heart. See her manoeuvring to reach her vic¬ 
tim, now hesitating between Kobespierre, Marat, and 
Danfon, but feeling her hatred increasing hourly 
against the second, as the greatest monster of the 
triumvirate. She is admitted to his room, where the 
human brute, reposing in his bath, was seeking relief 
from the tortures of disease which made his putrefying 
flesh drop from his bones. He listens to her words, 
and already traces the names of the proscribed de¬ 
puties of Caen for execution. She scans his figure, 
studies where to strike, and plunges her knife deep 
into the heart of Marat! Fearless and undaunted she 
stood the ordeal of trial, and here she died glorying 
in the deed! Here too, in less than a month after 
the execution of Marie Antoinette, was brought the 
time-serving Duke of Orleans, u Philip Egalite,’' so 
styled in derision by the revolutionists—he who had 
been the most uncompromising enemy of Louis XYI. 
and his queen, who had voted for the death of the 
former, and who from being the idol, the tool, and the 
jest of the assembly and populace, soon became their 
8 


170 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


victim on this guillotine ! Among countless others, 
some of virtue and rare talents suffered; Bailley, 
who had been lately elevated to the Mayoralty by the 
unanimous voice of Paris, Fetliion had but recently 
preceded him. Here just retribution speedily over¬ 
took Barnave, whose voice was ever raised against the 
royal family, and whose vote was given for the death 
of the king. Here perished that party, at once the 
friends and blind enemies of their sovereign, the 
Girondists, twenty-one in number. Misguided in their 
views, puffed up with pride, and failing in what they 
doubtless grasped at—power—they fell beneath the ac¬ 
cumulated anger of the revolutionary tribunal, only a 
few days sooner than the leaders who imprisoned 
them. Among that band of enthusiasts how sad it is 
to find such ribald jesting and impious sentiments on 
the subject of religion! "Well may we believe the 
Abbe Lambert, who watched anxiously the whole 
night at the door of their prison in the Conciergerie, 
when he assures us that his soul was saddened unto 
death at the impiety with which they laughed at di¬ 
vine revelation. There he watched and prayed for 
their conversion. In vain did he appeal to his friend 
Brissot, one of the condemned. God had no place in 
their thoughts. The false maxims of the world, its 
vain philosophy, and pride, hardened them. Fortu¬ 
nately perhaps for some of them the good Abbe Emery, 
the Superior of St. Sulpice, a fearless soldier of the 
church, and one who refused the revolutionary oath 
ordered to the clergy, prevailed on the unfortunate 
Abbe Fauchet, one of the prisoners, to raise his heart 
to God, and make an act of contrition. He, in turn, 


VICTIMS OF THE REVOLUTION. 171 

heard the confession of Sillery, another whose heart 
was touched by grace. Fearful was the scene the 
night preceding the execution. They feasted, and 
sang songs to Liberty. The banquet of death ! Yet 
who knows but some who turned to heaven for mercy 
on their way to execution, found that pardon they 
asked. How mournful must have been the scene, 
when, as the executioner entered their dungeon to 
cut their hair before starting for the scaffold, each 
came forward to bow his head, and offer his hands to 
be bound. “Take,” said Gensonne to the Abbe 
Lambert, who stood weeping, •“ take this lock of hair 
to my poor wife ; tell her ’tis all I have to send her 
save the assurance that I die with my last thoughts 
on her.” Vergniaud, the stoutest of them all, if we 
regard pagan stoicism and fearlessness of death, wrote 
with a pin on the case of his watch the initials of a 
friend with the date of his own death ; and asked that 
it might be conveyed to its destination. Nearly all 
addressed a token of affection to parents, families or 
friends. Five death cars conveyed them to this spot. 
One by one they bowed their heads upon the block, 
and “ La Marseillaise,” which they had all commenced 
on leaving their prison, grew fainter and less, as one 
by one the axe diminished their numbers. Thus in 
thirty-one minutes the axe of the executioner immo¬ 
lated these twenty-one deputies, who, whatever may 
have been their impious principles, were far less 
guilty than their judges. They were removed after 
death to the same burial-place, where the remains of 
Louis XVI. were lying, and the curious may still see 
on the old records of “ La Madeleine ” the entry : 


172 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


“ For burying 21 deputies of Gironde 210 francs.” 
Here were executed two days after the deputy Luxe, 
from Mayence, and Olympe de Gonges, and in a few 
days that remarkable woman, Madame Roland, whose 
name is so intimately associated with the Girondists. 
Like them an enthusiast, a disciple of reason, boasting 
of freedom from all religious restraint, and sacrificing 
at the altar of fanaticism what might have rendered her 
an ornament to her sex. By the guillotine on the 7th 
of May, 1794, fell Madame Elizabeth, the pious sister 
of Louis XYI. Danton and Des Moulins expiated 
their bloody deeds upon the scaffold, April 5th, 1794. 
The former, a human monster, not alone in actions, 
but in appearance, a fit personification of the king of 
terrors, a nightmare, whose hated presence cannot be 
shaken off, “ more like a Cyclop or unearthly goblin, 
than a man,” says Michelet; colossal in stature, athle¬ 
tic in frame, his voice like distant thunder, eloquent 
and impressive in speech, cruel and repulsive, fearless 
in danger, a rival of Robespierre, the restless move¬ 
ment of his small red eyes “ the embodiment of anar¬ 
chy, swayed by madness, fury, and fatality.” Such 
is.the portrait given us by his friends, of Danton. 
Surely the soul was correctly pictured in his face—for 
more cruel and impious than Marat, he was only less 
so than Robespierre. He died as he lived, an infidel 
scoffer at religion, in his 35th year. And the young 
poet Des Moulins, what a firebrand was he ! What 
talents prostituted to demoralizing purposes! The 
firm friend and tool of Danton, he had not a particle 
of his nerve. There are few tilings, however, more 
touching than the letter written to his young wife 


DANTON. 


173 


(an equally talented and enthusiastic being) the day 
before his execution (she soon followed him to the 
scaffold). It speaks of a soul which was not created 
to be thus destroyed. The fickle crowd, so long 
swayed by Danton and Des Moulins, raised a shout of 
joy as their heads fell on the 5th of March, 1794. 


CHAPTER XV. 


Horrors of the Revolution continued—General Desolation—Robespierre— 
Population diminished by thousands—Death of Robespierre—Napo¬ 
leon III.—Champs Elysees—Pet Dogs—Palais de l’lndustrie—Closing 
Scene—Choir of Five Hundred Voices—“ Vive l’Empereur.” 


T HE appetite for blood was at length satiated-; 

people grew pale, and trembled each for himself, 
when whole families were led out to slaughter—men 
for sympathizing with their neighbors, mothers for 
weeping over their sons, sisters because they were 
suspected of wishing well to brothers in the emigrant 
armies; the old and feeble, because they spoke of 
other days ; the virtuous and good, because they, wept 
over the desolation of the times—no one was secure. 
By thousands the population diminished almost daily, 
confidence was destroyed, man looked upon his brother 
wdtli suspicion, families avoided each other. The 
death tumbril or charrette stole along the streets each 
morning, noon, and night, like a black spectre with its 
freight of human victims for the axe. 


THE REIGN OF TERROR. 


175 


On the 29th August, 1792, the gates or barriers of 
the city had been closed, to prevent any of the citizens 
from escaping. Tlius it was for 48 hours, during 
which the Supreme Directory ordered domiciliary 
visits under the pretence of looking for arms, but in 
reality to spy out all, whether priests or laity, who were 
suspected of opposition to the Reign of Terror. To 
carry out this object, all male members of families of 
sufficient age were summoned to the “ Champs de 
Mars ” to be enrolled in the foreign legion, and to 
march to the frontiers to protect “ La Republique.” 
The committee reported that they had arrested “ all 
the refractory priests,” under which name all friends 
of humanity were included. Terror and fear pre¬ 
vailed. Danton with his thunder-toned voice urged 
on the multitude to destroy the enemies of the country. 
The noble victims in the “Temple” were filled with 
apprehension. The prisons had been crowded with 
thousands during the preceding days. Their doom 
was evident. A band of 300 assassins marched to the 
“ Hotel de Ville,” where Robespierre, Billaut Va- 
rennes, and Collot d’Herbois addressed them in the 
most inflammatory strains, urging them on to deeds 
of “ glory,” and to spare not one of the enemies of the 
Republic ! The soul sickens at the blood which 
flowed—the thousands immolated in the prisons, con¬ 
vents, and asylums! for, maddened by the liquor which 
was freely given them, the vile herd revelled in mas¬ 
sacre, and rioted in bloodshed. It was not until ab¬ 
solute surfeit of human blood sickened the actors that 
this tragedy ceased. Robespierre, supreme director 
from 31st May, 1793, ruled the wild passions of the 


176 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


populace with surprising skill. He had advocated, 
27th July, 1789, that all letters should he opened 
under pretence of conspiracy against the State. His 
smile was life, his frown the sure presage of the guil¬ 
lotine. Like JEolus he guided the angry storms, 
himself ever trembling on the verge of ruin. At one 
time borne in triumph on the people’s shoulders, again 
crowned with laurel! It is wonderful how he gained 
such mastery over the minds of his cotemporaries: 
for, from all we learn from the accounts of 1793, he 
possessed neither the qualifications of a leader, nor the 
talent of a statesman. In appearance he was repulsive, 
shrivelled, feeble in health, sallow-jaundiced com¬ 
plexion, remarkably short eye-sight, harsh, grating, 
and thin voice, sad, sharp and meagre countenance, 
restless and nervous, ever starting, if not at the sound 
of his own voice, at least at the slightest noise, ever 
excited, fearful even to the basest cowardice, and in¬ 
capable of controlling his passions, either animal or 
social. In point of talents he was vastly inferior to 
many who trembled before the nervous twitching of 
his gray eye ; and in all that we might expect in one 
so famous or infamous in the annals of the French re¬ 
volution. He was far beneath either Hanton, whom 
he hated; Marat, whom he professed to despise; or 
Rousseau, in whose death by poison there is little 
doubt of his complicity. Yet he ruled supremely, while 
thousands fell around him in every class, and untold 
hundreds of thousands died throughout France by his 
command. He had covered France with scaffolds; 
he had commissioned his proconsuls, Carriere, Couthon, 
and Collot d’Herbois, to travel through France with 


ROBESPIERRE. 


177 


supreme authority to butcher, destroy, and decimate 
the people. All who fell in his way, Danton, La 
Croix, and their numerous satellites, had fallen by his 
command, and had he lived hut a few months longer, 
portions of France would have been depopulated by 
the guillotine, so extensive were his arrangements for 
the carrying out of his plans* He knew the weak 
side of the masses, knew where and how to strike. lie 
w T as evidently an instrument in the hands of the 
“ King of kings,” to chastise the French nation. It 
is 6aid of Tamerlane, the Tartar Khan, that in Damas¬ 
cus he piled into a pyramid seventy thousand human 
skulls, and gazed in savage exultation on his past 
glory, while he contemplated new ones ! Alas ! how 
many hundreds of thousands might not the monster 
Robespierre have piled up in France ? But the day 
of retribution is at hand. Why is the guillotine, yet 
reeking with the blood of 1400 victims, brought back 
from the place near the “ Barriere du Trone,” where 
it has been only six weeks? Again, as when the 
sainted and the good died upon it, the guillotine 
stands on the “ Place de la Concorde.” What new 
triumph awaits the master spirits of the reign of 
terror ? Robespierre ! Rejoice, weeping humanity! 
the scene has changed! The tyrant, drunk with the 
blood of human hecatombs, has fallen, his measure of 
crime is filled to overflowing; the secret hatred, so 
long suppressed by fear, has broken forth among his 
enemies, even as the flames from Vesuvius or Etna; 
and ruin follows as surely in their train. In the midst 
of his career he is accused to the revolutionary Con¬ 
vention. It is decreed he should be arrested. His 
8 * 


178 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


presence of mind leaves him, for his thrice guilty con¬ 
science makes him a greater coward than ever. His 
wicked rule is drawing to a close. A reaction has 
taken place in the minds of the people, and they 
clamor for the Wood of their late master and idol, 
Robespierre. The sharers of his favors now turn 
against him. Henriot, maddened with fury, is hurled 
from an upper window. Le Bas blows his own 
brains out. The younger brother of Robespierre pre¬ 
cipitates himself from the window to the pavement be¬ 
low. St. Just alone stands calm and fearless, while 
the master demon, Robespierre, discharges a pistol into 
his own mouth, which, instead of terminating his life, 
only served to prolong and increase his tortures. His 
lower j aw is shattered frightfully. He is dragged by 
the infuriated populace to the Convention. Faint and 
bleeding he is laid on the table, on which he had 
signed the death-warrant of so many thousands; in 
the hall of the Committee of Public Welfare, gloomy 
and sullen, unable to speak, he hears the execra¬ 
tions vented against him. The handle of his pistol 
is still convulsively grasped; with it he strives to 
scrape off the blood, which, oozing from his shattered 
jaw, coagulates on the cloth which binds his face. 
Crowds of people fill the hall, breathing vengeance, 
and heaping curses on the wretched sufferer. He 
hears, for he cannot close his ears against them, even 
though he shuts his eyes to keep off the horrid sight. 
He is rudely conveyed to the Conciergerie, that 
gloomy prison, to which he had condemned so many, 
and the wretched St. Just, Henriot, Cuthon, with the 
younger Robespierre, are made sharers of his fate. 


DEATH OP ROBESPIERRE. 


179 


Early the following morning sentence of death is de¬ 
creed against the culprits, 21 in number. Here then 
is the scatfold erected for the execution of Robespierre 
and his companions. The immense place or square 
is crowded with a multitude, more boisterous than 
ever, anxious for the blood of the tyrant. The Rue 
St. Honore on my right, and the gardens of the 
Tuileries are filled—screaming women and frantic old 
men follow the charrette, demanding vengeance on the 
head of the monster. More furious than the rest one 
woman breaks through the guards, surrounding the 
cart on which Robespierre is seated more dead than 
alive, and screams: “ Murderer of my kindred! your 
agonies fill me with joy ; go down to hell covered with 
the curses of every mother in France .” On ascending 
the scaffold the executioner pointed him out to the 
multitude; a yell of exultation breaks from the popu¬ 
lace. The bandage is roughly torn from his face, the 
remnant of his shattered jaw falls upon his breast, and 
a piercing shriek escapes him; it is echoed back by 
the curses of the infuriated people. He is thus exhibit¬ 
ed, a frightful spectacle ; his head is placed upon the 
block, the axe falls, and amid more bitter maledictions 
than have ever been heaped on mortal being, the wretch¬ 
ed soul of Robespieree was ushered before its God! 
Crowds of women danced around his corpse, and for 
hours men seemed transformed into demons, exulting 
over the fall of him they had learned to consider the 
cause of their ruin. The other victims fall by the axe, 
adding to the general joy. The city of Paris seems in¬ 
toxicated with delight; the reign of terror is at an end! 

The guillotine may be said to be the only unanswer- 


180 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


able argument of the revolution. It was a fitting 
deathbed for the wicked men who had sent their lawful 
sovereign to its axe! for those “ who had sown the 
storm, deserved to reap the whirlwind.” It was a 
fearful avenger of eighteen thousand six hundred and 
three victims who had died upon it during the “reign 
of terror !” It was the just avenger of the one mil¬ 
lion twenty-two thousand three hundred and fifty-one 
besides the above, throughout La Vendee, Nantes, 
and Lyons! What shall I say of the unknown 
thousands of priests, of religious women, of young and 
old who were butchered systematically in the prisons 
at Versailles, at Avignon, Toulon, Marseilles, and 
Bedon, where, out of a population of several thousands, 
only one hundred and fifty-five persons escaped! How 
shall I speak of the butcheries in the city of Paris 
alone, from Sunday the 2d to Friday the 7tli of Sep¬ 
tember, 1792 ! At the convent of Carmelites 244, at 
the abbey St. Germain 180, at that of the Bernardines 
73, at the hospital of La Salpetriere 45, at the prison 
of Conciergerie 85, at that of the Chatelet 214, at that 
of La Force 164, in short, 12,000 in the prisons and 
hospitals of Paris within one week ! The French re¬ 
volution was infidel. It perverted morals, ruined 
order, deified reason, sought to dethrone God, dis¬ 
seminated false principles of philosophy, and rendered 
France the scoff and byword of Christian nations. It 
changed one dynasty, of antiquated errors if you will, 
for another of terror, bloodshed and crime ! This in 
turn was succeeded by the old Bourbon line, to yield 
to the Corsican soldier, the bright meteor whose play¬ 
things were crowns, whose footstool were thrones! 


NAPOLEON III. 


181 


the second Alexander, who, while conqueror almost 
of a world, seemed to weep that there were no more 
worlds to subdue. His dynasty yields again to the 
Bourbons, only again to be resumed in another form. 
The revolutionists have passed away ; that is, the chief 
actors of that bloody scene; their efforts have been 
laughed to scorn, their graves have been sealed by the 
united stigmas of infamy, crime and horror! And 
France still a kingdom, an empire ! Her religion 
more flourishing, her temples more glorious, her 
pontiffs and priests more honored, and her Imperial 
ruler raised to his high estate to glorify God by his 
private worth, his noble protection to the Vicar of 
Christ, Pio IX.; and by reflecting the virtues of the 
Christian, the wisdom of the ruler, and the daring in¬ 
trepidity necessary to rule over France! I am no 
political partisan, nor do I know enough of State af¬ 
fairs to venture an opinion for or against the claimants 
to the throne of St. Louis, but I am free to own my 
admiration of this providence of God, who has thus 
brought good out of evil: to proclaim my belief in 
the providential elevation of Napoleon III. to destroy 
what infidelity essayed; and to re-establish the claim 
of France to the title of Catholic ! In our enthusiasm 
I fear we have delayed our readers too long ; each will 
have his own views on the subject, while perhaps 
some may not have reflected on the scenes here de¬ 
scribed. Ere we leave this interesting spot, let me 
remark that here, where subsequently stood the guillo¬ 
tine, and where now stands yonder graceful fountain, 
an explosion of fireworks occurred during the fetes in 
honor of the marriage of Louis XVI. in 1770. The 


182 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


confusion and terror were so great that 1200 persons 
were crushed to death, and upwards of 2000 danger¬ 
ously wounded. During the revolution of 1848 Louis 
Philippe escaped by this place from the Tuileries. On 
the fourth of November, 1848, the new Constitution 
was proclaimed here. Let us now take a hasty view 
of the “ Champs Elysees ” on our way to the “ Hotel 
des Invalides.” This promenade is divided into two 
parts by the avenue which begins at the Tuileries, and 
extends beyond the “Arc de Triomphe de l’Etoile” 
to Neuilly, the favorite residence of the late Louis 
Philippe. It is the fashionable resort of all classes, and 
here on Sundays, the grand gala-day of the working 
classes, may life in Paris be studied. Every kind of 
amusement for childhood, youth, and old age, may 
here be witnessed. Mirth and laughter seem the 
genius of the place: the lovely foliage, the ample 
walks, and numerous fountains refreshing the atmo¬ 
sphere ; the countless games perpetually carried on, 
the joyous groups of children sporting and tumbling 
on the green banks. The splendid equipages con¬ 
stantly passing towards “Bois de Bologne,” varied 
costumes from all parts of the world, the gorgeous 
cafes which line each side in true oriental splendor, 
and the gay uniforms, prancing steeds, and clattering 
swords of the French cavalry and infantry, all this 
tends to render the “ Champs Elysees” a most interest¬ 
ing resort. How strange to me at first seemed the 
attention paid by ladies and gentlemen to their pet 
dogs! nearly every fifth “pile of satin, silk, and mil¬ 
linery” led along a little, woolly, pug-nosed, snarling 
cur, often fantastically decked out with parti-colored 


A REVIEW. 


183 


ribbons; and when the air is at all cool, with reg¬ 
ular cloaks thrown over their delicate little bodies! 
Nor does the sterner sex differ in taste ; for repeatedly 
I have met the combined results of tailor, hatter, and 
shoemaker delicately threading his way through the 
invoices of drygoods promenading the walks, and 
leading by every color of ribbon or cord his own most 
strikingly correct counterpart. Yerily it requires 
more brains in Paris ofttimes to cultivate moustache 
and whiskers than to make a living! Music, danc¬ 
ing, juggling, gambling, and all conceivable and in¬ 
conceivable sorts of pastimes are going on. The 
American is surprised at the total absence of rowdy¬ 
ism, or uproar. It is a bewildering scene, revolting 
to me at all times, yet vastly more so on Sunday. The 
Parisians enjoy it, and as they have to answer for it, 
let us leave it with them. There are upwards of a 
million inhabitants in Paris, and it really seems that 
a goodly proportion is poured into the Elysian Fields 
on a pleasant Sunday evening. I remember to have 
seen on Tuesday, November 27, the Emperor Napo¬ 
leon and the king of Sardinia reviewing 60,000 troops 
on this spot. By my side was that veteran of the 
“ corps diplomatique,” Calderon de la Barca, so long 
known, and so well beloved in the United States. 1 
expressed to him my surprise at the order and almost 
discipline in the immense crowd: and ventured an 
opinion that it might be explained by the bayonets 
and police around us. I learned from him that 
though such array was doubtless the partial reason, 
the characteristic politeness of the French is preserved 
in the greatest crowd. With us how different! A 


184 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


few gather at a stump speech or election, and a 
stranger would imagine that the “ area of freedom ” 
was only to be enlarged by boisterous yelling, cursing, 
and confusion. Thousands may assemble in Paris on 
occasions of public fetes, merry-making or display, 
and no disposition is evinced to create disorder. But 
let us proceed. We might enter the “ Jardin Mobile” 
or the “ Jardin d’Hiver,” had we either time or in¬ 
clination. Fortunately such is not the case. They 
are places of doubtful morality, to say the least; in 
fact, public schools for vice, where all that is fascinat¬ 
ing in music, dancing, meretricious ornament, science, 
trickery, whirling waltz, breakneck polka, and unre¬ 
strained freedom, is held out to ensnare the unsuspect¬ 
ing. True, in the “Jardin d’Hiver” respectable 
families will bring on some occasions their little chil¬ 
dren to what is called an “Infants’Ball.” Here they 
are dressed in all costumes, and, though some not 
more than three years old, learn to flourish before an 
admiring audience, and ape the free and easy antics 
of Parisian dancers. What may we expect from such 
education ! “ Just as the twig is bent the tree is in¬ 

clined.” From such beginnings, bad endings follow. 
And we may trace back to the misguided fondness 
of parents, and to the baneful influence of late hours, 
fashionable dress, promiscuous assemblages, sipping 
cofiee in the open evening air by the dazzling light 
reflected from countless mirrors, fairy scenes of gar¬ 
lands, festoons, and music, the sad wanderings of 
thousands of unfortunate females in Paris. As we 
wander On let us tarry for a few moments to visit the 
“Palais de l’Industrie,” or World’s Fair, now in full 


PALAIS DE L INDUSTRIE. 


185 


operation. Much has been said against the propriety 
of impeding the view, the circulation of air, &c., by 
this immense pile; with this we have nothing to do. 
No one can deny that the idea as well as its realization 
reflects honor on Napoleon; who, though immersed in 
the Crimean war, and necessarily occupied with af¬ 
fairs of the greatest import abroad, conceived the 
plan of uniting in Paris the great and distinguished 
of every clime, to contend in friendly rivalry for the 
palm of superiority in the pursuits and productions of 
peace. I had not seen the Fairy Palace that graced 
Hyde Park in England in 1851; but I had visited re¬ 
peatedly the Crystal Palace in New York, and it en¬ 
tered not into my philosophy that glass and iron could 
be wrought into more noble forms of architecture. 
How my homely pride fell, as I entered the French 
“ Palais de l’lndustrie! ” The main building is of 
stone. It cannot be said to lay claim to any partic¬ 
ular architectural merit, yet it is grand and imposing. 
The vaulted and pointed roof of glass, countless 
arches, columns, the nave, the double row of windows, 
the gorgeous display of articles from the East and 
the West Indies, from all parts of Asia, from Egypt, 
Tunis, Turkey, and Greece, from the various Italian 
States and Sardinia, from Holland, Denmark, Sweden, 
Spanish and Portugese countries, and from the United 
States, each country represented by its flag, and hav¬ 
ing its peculiar gallery or hall for the display of its 
productions ; to me it seemed like a dream. I seemed 
in a world of wonders, and though I passed more 
than three hours within its enclosure, I left it with a 
confused idea of having seen many wonderful things, 


186 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


heard many wonderful sounds, and been most wonder¬ 
fully jammed and squeezed! Never can I forget the 
closing scene of the exhibition, when the Emperor, 
attended by his staff and council, announced the con¬ 
clusion of the Fair. He was dressed in plain citizen’s 
attire. A choir of five hundred voices and instruments 
sent forth strains of unearthly sweetness. At the close 
Napoleon arose. He was calm and dignified. The 
twenty-five thousand assembled within the “ Palais” 
were as silent as one. The clear bold voice of the 
Emperor rung out upbn the multitude in tones of 
dignified authority: each word was audible, and in 
an offhanded, graceful manner he delivered an address, 
breathing patriotism, authority, and sound sense. I 
felt the blood coursing through my veins, and I could 
not refrain from joining in the cry of “ Yive l’Era- 
pereur ! ” It is not within my province to describe 
the paintings, sculptures, machinery, both here and 
in the palace of fine arts. This would require a week 
of careful study, and a more scientific pen than mine. 
On leaving the exhibition I could but ill suppress my 
mortification to read, that of all contributors to the 
palm of superiority my own country was the 
lowest. She alone stood No. 67, while even Norway, 
the next lowest, was 436! 


CHAPTER XYI. 


Hotel des Invalides—Drummer Boy—Court of the Hotel—Old Soldiers, 
wounded and infirm—Old Soldier’s account of Moscow—Burning of 
Flags—Interior of Hotel—Dormitories—Kitchen—Scene in Ward of St. 
Louis—Old Soldiers at Dinner—Anecdote of Soldier with wooden 
head—France always catholic—Anecdote of old Soldier who wouldn’t 
go to Confession—Encouragement in France to become soldiers. 

TTTE will now cross the Suspension Bridge on onr 
* * way to the “ Hotel des Invalides.” This bridge 
leads from the north to the south side of the Seine. 
On turning to the left we enter the shady grove 
called “ L’Esplanade des Invalides ; ” a beautiful open 
space, nearly 1500 feet in length. It conducts to an 
edifice, at once the pride of France, and the ad¬ 
miration of the world. Its imposing fgaade towards 
the river, relieved by several towers or pavilions, and 
rising four lofty stories, is 612 feet wide, while high 
above all rises the dome of Mensard, who, after thirty 
years of labor, accomplished a feat, if less than that of 
Angelo in Rome, surely second to none other in the 
world except St. Sophia’s at Constantinople. As we 
approach the Hotel des Invalides, which I should 
have observed is an asylum for the wounded and dis- 


188 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


abled soldiers of France, we cross a fosse or dyke. 
¥e enter on a terrace on which are mounted eighteen 
cannons, interesting from their associations, and some 
of them for their quaint shapes. They are spoils 
taken from the Venetians, the Dutch, Austrians, 
Prussians, Russians, and Algerians. No mother 
watches more fondly over her children than do the 
war-worn old veterans, here gathered, over these 
monuments of victory. And no father’s heart exults 
more proudly at the sound of his first-born’s voice, 
than do these old soldiers, when on days of public 
festivity they hear the thunder-tones of these cannons 
booming over Paris. On each side of the court lead¬ 
ing to the main entrance, are little flower-gardens, 
exquisitely beautiful, and attended to by such of the 
old pensioners as have a taste for horticulture. At 
the entrance to this court are the lodges or guard- 
rooms, where, among several soldiers on duty, I saw 
the smallest specimen of a drummer boy I could well 
imagine. Scarce as high as his brass field drum, it 
seemed wonderful to me how the little urchin could 
rollout such notes from the instrument. He seemed as 
proud of his drum, dangling tiny sword, and bright 
uniform, as a field-marshal. The entire edifice and 
accessories cover an area of eighteen acres. It would 
be impossible for any but an experienced pen to de¬ 
scribe this hospital. It is unique in itself, and re¬ 
sembles, for all that I can read, nothing but itself. It 
is, and doubtless ever will be, unlike the sombre 
hospital, the prison garrison, or sumptuous palace— 
but it will always be in style of architecture the 
“ Hotel des Invalides.” The form of the whole is 


THE INVALIDES. 


189 


a perfect parallelogram or square ; this is divided into 
live squares or courts, the most beautiful one of which 
is called the “Cour d’Honneur,” and is 315 feet or 105 
strides long and 65 wide. Four covered galleries 
surround the interior of this court, one above the 
other ; of the other four there are two on the east, and 
two on the west, smaller than the one we are in. In 
these side ranges are the refectories or dining halls. 
There are four of them, each 150 feet long and 27 
wide, and here assemble for meals the relics of battle¬ 
fields under the “ drapeau Fran§ais,” while they feast 
their eyes on the wars of Louis XIV., depicted on 
the walls. At the southern extremity of the “ Cour 
d’Honneur ” is the northern porch or entrance to the 
church; this porch, widely different from that on 
“Place Vauban,” is intended for the inmates of the 
asylum. Over this entrance is a splendid statue of 
Napoleon I. Entering the church from this side, no 
man possessing a soul can feel otherwise than awed. 
He sees war-worn veterans here and there kneeling 
in prayer, some blind, some deprived of one or both 
arms, others with wooden legs, scar-covered faces, or 
maimed in different ways—here they kneel in silence, 
recollection, and simplicity of faith, offering to God 
the remnants of a life, passed perhaps in sin, even 
while following the tricolor flag to victory, even 
while enduring untold hardships, and electrifying the 
world with the glory of their arms. Here they kneel. 
Their brethren in arms are mouldering in every land, 
their blood reddens the fields of Flanders, of Lile, 
Kocroix, Denain, Leus, Milan, Fontenoy, Jemmapes, 
Arcole, Wagram, Lodi, Austerlitz, Smolensko, and 


190 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


Waterloo! The cold waters of the Rhine, the Nie- 
man, and the surging Beresina have long washed the 
bones of thousands among their compatriots, and the 
everlasting snows of Moscow and other parts of 
Russia have entombed half a million of their brave 
companions. These, and many before them, have 
escaped, covered with glory and with wounds, not re¬ 
treating, not in shame, but as one old soldier answer¬ 
ed me, when I asked if he had lost his arm by frost 
in Russia. No. By amputation ? No. How then ? 
“ By the cannon, Monsieur ! ” Here they assemble 
to pass in peace and in happiness the remnants of 
their days ; here they kneel to adore the same mystic 
Lamb immolated for them by faithful chaplains on the 
battle-field; and here they come as children to their 
father to ask forgiveness for every evil done, and to 
prepare for that other, higher and holier reward 
which awaits the soldier of the cross. How did my 
heart throb quicker, and my tears start from their hid¬ 
ing-place, as I gazed upon these gray-headed soldiers 
of varied rank and office, here forgetting the world 
to remember they were sinners ! The French soldier 
is noble every where, noble amid the roar of cannon, 
the rush of armies, the struggle with elements, fire, 
and sword. I have always loved to contemplate him 
defending right on the field of glory, where the Cross 
contended with the Crescent for possession of the Holy 
Land—misguided, if you will, yet noble soldiers. How 
often has my heart throbbed with wild enthusiasm, 
as I followed the sons of France under the flag of 
Turenne, of Conde, of Yillars, and of others, when 
they planted the proud eagles on the towers and 


L EGLISE DES SOLDATS. 


191 


raraparts of Europe ! No other army, save the little 
band during our own revolutionary struggle at Valley 
Forge, the crossing of the Delaware, and the battle of 
the Brandywine, ever endured more privation, the total 
want of food and clothing, or displayed greater heroism 
amid undressed wounds, and more fidelity to principle. 
I have always admired the gallant soldiers of France 
for their devotion to Napoleon, when unmindful of 
their own sufferings they would have given their 
last piece of bread, or taken the blanket from their 
shoulders to keep him from suffering. I have read 
and read again of their noble exploits on the snowy 
fields of the Crimea, the Malakoff, the Redan, the en¬ 
tire siege of Sebastopol. Yet in these the excitement 
of war led the van, glory waved her proud banner 
over them, and “ victory or death ” was the war-cry. 
How much more sublime the scene on which I now 
gaze. Officers and subalterns, generals and privates, 
here coming in the evening of life to offer to heaven 
not alone the glory they may have won, but the tear 
and prayer of faith, of hope and love! O, man is 
great, God is greater! Glory is noble, religion more 
glorious ! Our country on earth is dear, our country 
in heaven dearer!—This church consists of a nave, di¬ 
vided by lofty side arches, supporting a gallery on 
either side; it is called “ L’Eglise des Soldats.” It 
forms, strictly speaking, two distinct churches, the 
one we are now in, and the other beyond the main 
altar, called the church of the dome, to which we will 
presently pay a visit. This nave is 70 strides or 221 
feet long, and 24 strides wide. From the marble 
pavement to the ceiling it is about 66 feet. The 


192 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


sanctuary at the extremity of this nave is 18 strides 
long to the altar. Over the principal entrance, on the 
side, is a singularly constructed organ, comprising 
within itself a musical instrument, a clock, and an 
astronomical table. On the east and west sides are 
18 lofty arches, surmounted by as many smaller ones 
corresponding to as many side windows ; on each side 
are the tombs of different governors of the institution. 
These, at least some of them, are very grand. Among 
those pencilled in my note-book, I will mention the 
white marble tomb of “ De Coigny” on the left. It is 
truly military. At each end are two lances, to which 
two sabres are attached reversed, and a garland of 
cypress. “Marie Francois de Coigny” was a Peer 
and Mareschal of France, had been in the wars of 
Hanover and Oberens, a deputy of Caen to the general 
assembly in 1789. He had been in the service of 
Portugal, returned to France under the Restoration, 
and died Governor of Hotel des Invalides 19tli May, 
1821. Another on the left is the cenotaph of Lobau, 
who died here 1838, on the 28th of November, a 
beautiful white monument. Also a brass tablet, 
bearing the names of such as are interred in the 
vaults of the church. Oudinot, Moncey, and Molitor 
have each a suitable monument. It may be well to ob¬ 
serve that the office of Governor was bestowed only on 
the most distinguished officers of the army from 1674 
to the present day. It is a military, not a civil com¬ 
mission. From the rich cornice which surrounds the 
upper arches, hang 54 weather-beaten and shattered 
flags, captured during and since the days of the re¬ 
public. They are the remnants of the three thousand 


THE TROPHIES. 


193 


which were burned by order of the Governor Sernrier 
in 1814, when the allied forces entered Paris, and the 
Cossacks were encamped within and around the Es¬ 
planade through which we have passed. They are 
venerable relics, and serve as fruitful sources of many 
a battle-field, trod again in fancy by the inmates of 
the house. I remembered to have read that before 
the fall of Napoleon I., there were three thousand 
flags from all the hard-fought fields of his glory, and 
seeing but those of which I have spoken high above, 
I asked my old guide who had but one eye, one arm, 
and one leg, what had become of them all. “ Ah,” 
exclaimed the octogenarian, while tears stole down 
his eyes, “ that is not the least effect of the campaign 
of Russia ! Well do I remember that fatal battle ; we 
had started from France a great army, six hundred 
thousand; our men died in hundreds every day by 
cold; we returned but a remnant of 4 le grand armee,’ ” 
he sobbed ; “ I remember the last visit the Emperor 
paid to this house. It was the 5th of March, 1813. 
He was so kind ! Le Mareschal Serurier received him 
with all the honors of the place ; we were ordered out 
in file, and hailed the last hope of France in the person 
of the Emperor ; we all Went into the church there, the 
church of the dome,the other side of the altar, and j oined 
in a 4 Te Deum ’ for his safe return; but we were sad, 
and some among our oldest companions said, Napoleon 
would never come back again. Oh,” continued he 
with enthusiasm, “ Leipsic was our ruin. Lutzen and 
Bautzen were his, but success was ours no longer! 
Our eagle fluttered proudly,” added he, 44 at Cham- 
puert, Montmirail, Yaux Champ, and Montereau, but 
9 


194 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


fortune turned from us.” The Emperor, I asked, 
what became of him? “Ah, Monsieur L’Americain, 
L’Empereur, as you know, was hunted even as the hare, 
betrayed, sold, hemmed in ! he abdicated at Fontaine¬ 
bleau. Paris was inundated by the combined armies, 
and la belle France was the prey of foreign hordes. 
Paris,” sobbed he, and tears fell thick and fast from 
the old soldier’s eyes, “ Paris, the home of brave sol¬ 
diers, the best city in the world, Paris, which had 
never been disgraced by an enemy’s camp, now fell 
into an enemy’s hands! Well do I remember the 
day, when all of us who could shoulder a musket, or 
use a spear, were under arms; the noble Moncey was 
our leader, but in vain ; and there, Monsieur, over the 
esplanade, and on the field of Mars the Cossacks en¬ 
camped ! The flags of our glory, we all ran to gather 
them, on the floor of the church we piled them, and 
we burned them ! For never shall France surrender 
a flag ! ” In his enthusiasm he had collected several 
of his companions around him, who for the moment, 
unmindful of the place, echoed “jamais ! jamais! ” 
Here then I learned the destiny of the more than 
three thousand flags which once adorned this temple. 
Proud trophies of France over Spain, Prussia, 
Austria, Portugal, Muscovia, and many others who 
had fallen before her resistless armies. Surely it was 
a sublime spectacle ! Was ever pile so noble, were 
ever ashes more sacred to patriotism ? Trophies of a 
thousand battles of almost fabulous daring, brilliant 
records of undying fame, glory, and feats of arms! 
See them smouldering in a heap of ruins ! Soldiers 
in tears feeding the glorious flames. And as they 


THE INVALIDES. 


195 


gaze and weep, and pile on banners, shattered with 
balls and stained with blood; as they shiver to pieces 
the sword of Frederic the Great, sooner than let it fall 
again into the enemy’s hands, we can understand the 
mistaken enthusiasm of the French patriot who ex¬ 
claimed : “ There is nothing eternal but the love of 
Country and of Liberty ! ” The interior of the church 
is ornamented with numerous statues ; the pulpit is 
of white marble. The altar stands under a grand arch, 
60 feet high and 24 wide. I cannot better describe 
this altar, than by transcribing almost the words of my 
guide-book. It is surmounted by a canopy, support¬ 
ed by 4 columns of black marble, consisting each of 
an entire block, and measuring 22 feet in height. The 
capitals are gilded, but the light admitted through 
painted windows gives them the appearance of mother 
of pearl. A beautiful figure of our Saviour, in white 
marble on a cross of bronze, adorns the altar. It di¬ 
vides the church, as I have said, into the old and new 
parts, or the church of the dome and that of the 
soldiers. It was removed in 1840 to afford room for 
the cortege conveying the coffin of Napoleon I., 
but is restored as it was under Louis XIV. The ceil¬ 
ing of the arch over the altar is adorned with a tri¬ 
angle, richly gilded; the word Jehovah is in the 
centre, and angels in attitudes of devotion kneel be¬ 
fore the symbol of the Trinity. Before we leave this 
portion of the asylum to walk around the “ Place 
Vauban,” where we alone can get admission to the 
church of the dome, let us take a walk with our 
soldier-guide through the library, refectories, kitchen, 
and dormitories. It will well repay us. In the for- 


196 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


mer, on the mantel-piece, if I remember correctly, 
are two candlesticks which formed part of the camp- 
equipage of the illustrious Turenne, an admirable 
statuette of the Marshal, and the cannon-ball by which 
he was killed. In another hall are models of the 
“ Hotel des Invalides,” of the different fortifications 
of France, and portraits of the different governors 
who have presided over the institution. Within the 
library are 20,000 volumes for the use of the inmates, 
who are admitted from 9 to 3 daily. A bold copy of 
David’s “ Napoleon crossing the Alps ” (the origi¬ 
nal of which is in Versailles) hangs here. The 
kitchen is an immense affair, and is always visited by 
strangers. Indeed, to me it seemed like a little town ! 
glowing furnaces ; busy cooks; and regular carts for 
hauling vegetables, meats, etc., for the five thousand 
inmates who can be accommodated within its walls! 
The guide informed me that eleven hundred pounds 
of meat were daily boiled, another thousand pounds 
used for ragouts, aynd twent five bushels of vegeta¬ 
bles. A good family supply daily ! ITad I not been 
ashamed, I would have tasted the quality of the roast 
and boiled. From this we proceed to the refectories, 
of which there are four. Over the door of one of 
them is an allegory, which I do not understand; but 
on the walls, as said above, are painted the wars of 
Louis XIV., who founded this noble institution. These 
frescoes are bold and in good preservation. The of¬ 
ficers take their meals apart from the privates, and 
are served from dishes of porcelain and silver ware, 
presented to their table by the Empress Maria 
Therese. The feeble, and those incapable from loss 


INTERIOR ARRANGEMENTS. 


197 


of limbs of helping themselves, are served in private. 
But two meals a-day are taken; a custom, by the 
way, pretty general in Europe. Passing now to the 
dormitories, which are eight in number, running east 
and west, we find each named after some distin¬ 
guished general, battle, or city, like the stalls and 
shops on the Champs Elysees; some of which sport 
most historic names, as “ Wagram,” “ Marengo,” and 
“ Duroc; ” so here we have the hall “ Louvois,” 
“ Luxembourg,” “ Kleber,” &c. They are perfectly 
arranged, with as much attention and cleanliness as 
our college dormitories. The infirmary is divided 
into seven large halls, each bearing the name of a 
saint. I remember in the ward St. Louis witnessing 
a simple, yet a striking scene. It was one of the 
Sisters of Charity, who have charge of this department, 
aiding a feeble-looking man (who either had the fever 
or was recovering from it) to kneel at the foot of the 
sweet altar, which is so situated in this immense hall 
that each patient can see the chaplain, as he says Holy 
Mass each day for them. It is immediately under 
the cupola which rises over the centre, where the 
two naves cross at right angles. The young man bore 
the marks of suffering ; he was pale; his long black 
hair flowing profusely over his shoulders gave him an 
appearance even effeminate, were it not for his jet- 
black moustache. lie begged to be permitted to 
kneel down before the altar, if even for a moment, 
that he might thank “La tres bonne chere Mere 
Marie ” for saving his reason. The good Sister sup¬ 
ported his tottering steps, knelt by his side, and with 
him thanked our blessed Mother for her prayers in 


198 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


Lis Lelialf. Tlie scene was so unexpected, so simple, 
so sublime, that I could have prostrated myself there 
with them, and mingled my tears with theirs! An¬ 
other ward is for the officers, and is called u St. 
Joseph.” Each disease or class of diseases has its 
apartment, everywhere you meet with cleanliness and 
order—simple little oratories, private altars for de¬ 
votion, crucifixes, pious pictures, good books, the 
sacred scriptures, all to point the soul heavenward. 
And then the daughters of St. Yincent! those heralds 
of charity, those living martyrs to suffering humanity, 
whose name, whose praises, and whose spirit may be 
traced in one word: Sister-of Charity! I will not 
tarry at the drug department, the bathing houses, or 
laundry—they are each models. As I passed the re¬ 
fectory, it was dinner hour; how I wished for the 
time being that I was an old soldier ! Glory to their 
names, that gallant band of seared and time-worn 
veterans! They have deserved well of their country. 
Each scar they bear is a passport to a nation’s grati¬ 
tude. Now, as they meet, and talk of scenes and 
dangers past, they shoulder one his crutch, another 
his cane, and fight “ in fancy ” their battles over 
again. How they recount the dangers of the Lybian 
desert, the battles of Egypt, and the Pyramids, while 
each shows a proof of having grappled with the 
Cossack foe, or struggled with opposing elements for 
“ La grande Nation ! ” Misguided though they were 
and half unconscious tools in hands directed by am¬ 
bition, they have deserved that their country should 
now cherish them, smooth their pathway to the grave, 
and shield their declining days from want. They have 


THE OLD SOLDIER. 


199 


followed the pomp and “ pageantry and circumstance 
of war,” and here they come to tell us the sad truth, 
what war makes man ! Some glorious and exalted, 
nay, dazzling in their splendor ; but, like the meteor, 
blazing for a moment, then lost in gloom. Others 
maimed, crippled, and shattered wrecks of once strong 
men, but a footstool from which their masters vaulted 
to the saddle, and rode through glory, thorns and 
trials to—the grave ! 

These old worthies have their traditions, and 
zealously defend them. From one who seemed an 
officer of rank, I learned that they are as full of fun 
and mischief as college boys. Among other traits re¬ 
lated by him I will here repeat one, to show how they 
appreciate the prying propensities of some who visit 
the institution, as though it were a menagerie ! There 
was an old soldier, fully sixty years of age, who after 
many years of service found himself encamped here. 
He was both loved and feared for his bluntness and 
good humor ; ever ready to take advantage of any 
opportunity presenting itself of turning another into 
ridicule, no matter who or where. On one occasion 
the presiding officer gave permission to a company of 
noble English ladies to visit the house, and gave strict 
orders that every attention should be paid them, that 
every department should be thrown open to them, and 
that nothing might be omitted that could in any 
manner interest them. So pompous was the order, 
and so important were the airs assumed by the visitors, 
that “ Martin,” the old soldier, who had overheard 
the instructions, formed at once a determination to 
turn them all into ridicule ; calling together several 


200 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


of his companions, lie made known his plan. “ Com¬ 
rades,” said he, “ if you are like me, you do not like 
the everlasting peering and peeping of a pack of lazy 
idlers who are every day-annoying us in our dormi¬ 
tories, chapel, and walks. Even this moment there is 
a set of such worthies in the shape of women, duch¬ 
esses and countesses, idlers of the court, who are peep¬ 
ing into every hole and corner of the house. I have 
a plan to give them a surfeit of it; to disgust them 
with the 1 Hotel des Invalides ; ’ do you want to know 
what it is ? ” Yes ! yes ! resounded from all sides. 
“Will you all follow my orders?” We will! we 
will! they replied. “ Scatter then each one of you, 
and tell each brother soldier that you meet to ask the 
ladies, if they have seen the soldier with the wooden 
head ! ” The plan took: each stationed himself pur¬ 
posely to meet the pompous officer and his conse¬ 
quential party, as they passed the old soldiers : these 
w T ould smile and bow, and patronizingly ask, if 
the ladies had seen the soldier with the wooden head. 
The question was repeated so often, and so many sin¬ 
gular sights of maimed and crippled old soldiers had 
met them that the ladies really began to think there 
was some truth in the case; of course, they did not 
suppose there was a man with a head of w r ood, but 
they began to think that there was something very 
strange, and they were determined to see it. They 
urged their officer guide to conduct them to the place 
where the “ wooden-headed soldier ” w T as. In vain 
did he smilingly assure them that it was a hoax, that 
it was impossible for surgery and medicine combined 
to operate such a phenomenon. Scarce had they 


THE SOLDIER WITH THE WOODEN HEAD. 201 


walked a dozen yards, when an old veteran on crutches 
or wooden legs would salute them politely, and ask, 
if they had yet seen the soldier with the wooden head , 
and would urge them to insist on seeing him before 
leaving the house ; it was such a curiosity! Now, 
titled ladies like most other women have curiosity, 
and the more it is suppressed, the more it will not 
stay suppressed. Our visitors became so urgent at 
length, and insisted so strongly that the commanding 
officer had empowered them to see all that was to be 
seen in the house, that our officer found his position 
rather disagreeable; they would take no excuse, but 
insisted that he would at once take them to see the 
soldier with the wooden head. His answers were con¬ 
strued into a want of politeness, or an unwillingness 
on his part to take so much trouble. Fortunately 
for him the Governor of the institution was at that 
moment passing ; they rushed to him, and complained 
of the want of gallantry on the part of their guide. 
Louvois, the Governor, turned an angry look on the 
young official, and demanded in what he had dis¬ 
obliged the ladies. They stated his repeated denial of 
the existence of the wooden-headed soldier , and his ab¬ 
solute refusal to show him to them. The what ? ex¬ 
claimed Louvois. The soldier with the wooden head ! 
they all replied. The Governor, though stern in 
manner and ever dignified, roared with laughter. 
“ Ormoy,” said he, “ who has played this joke on the 
ladies?” The officer addressed reflected for a mo¬ 
ment, and his eye rested on old “ Martin,” who was 
at the moment enjoying the joke with his companions. 
“ Old Martin, I’ll be bound,” said Ormoy; “ it is so 
9 * 


202 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


like him.” “ Order him to my office,” added the 
Governor. Martin obeys, he enters the command¬ 
er’s office, gives the military salute, and awaits the 
word. There he stands, a gray-headed veteran, one leg 
gone, one arm gone, all covered with scars and 
gashes, the remnant of many wars, and yet with a 
smirk in his eye, and a jovial expression of face. 
The stern commander is completely unarmed; he pro¬ 
pounds a question on a totally different subject, and 
instead of punishing, gave him fifty francs. Such is 
the spirit of these old pensioners. They seem lively, 
.ovia 1 , and in general hearty. You will meet them 
in every quarter of Paris, all dressed in the handsome 
uniform of tb 3 house; remarked for their soldierly, 
erect bearing, always respected, because respecting 
their own dignity; they are sure to receive the 
reward due to their merits by an admiring people. 
Another instance of the French character will suffice. 
It is well known that France is catholic, thoroughly, 
emphatically catholic; true, the bright page of her 
history is now and then stained with dark spots, her 
glory is dimmed by occasional crimes, and her fidel¬ 
ity rendered, for a time, doubtful by the wild excesses 
into which her children rush, yet she ever comes out 
fair. The loveliest skies are sometimes overclouded; 
and whether from the deck of the ocean steamer, the 
lovely walks of Monte Pincio in Pome, or the bright 
“ Hermitage ” on Vesuvius’ mount, you gaze on the 
ocean, sky, or Italian heavens, when least heralded 
dark clouds will gather, and a storm will burst upon 
you. So in the history of France. Pevolutions may 
rage, dangers, anarchy, dark nights may reign, but 


CALM. 


203 


there never was a dark night in the history of France 
unfollowed by a bright morning. There never was, 
there never will be, a storm over the country of St. 
Louis unfollowed by a calm ! From the days of 
Clovis and his pious consort to those of the sainted 
crusader Louis IX.—from the baptism of Hollo to 
that of the Prince Imperial in our own days, France 
has been heart and soul catholic. Her temples of re¬ 
ligion proclaim it, her martyrs attest it, and, like the 
loved land of my fathers, glorious old Ireland, she has 
from age to age proved her catholicity by the blooc 

of her children. Like Erin, France has tasted P 

' . < ■ > 

cup of affliction, and like the “ Island of Saints aik. 
of Scholars,” the country of St. Louis has retained the 
faith ! Their temples have been demolished, then 
priesthood scattered, their veins have been opened, 
and their life-blood has flowed in streams, but the 
torch of faith has not been extinguished; and the 
cross and the shamrock attest that the religion of their 
children is still green and flourishing. As long, as 
France is attached to her father, her lawful sovereign 
and ruler, she is among the happiest, as she is 
the most refined nation on earth. But when false 
gods seduce her from her fidelity, whenever the false 
philosophy of the stranger becomes her guide, and 
she leaves the old landmarks of faith, she loses her¬ 
self in the mazes of infidelity, anarchy prevails in her 
councils. But to my story. While abroad I read an 
anecdote which shows the character of the French 
soldier, whether Christian or not. It was, if it be not 
now, and if not, it should be, the rule that all who en¬ 
ter the asylum should make what we Catholics under- 


204 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


stand b t y a Retreat, that is, a form of spiritual ex¬ 
ercises to prepare the soul for eternity; a retiring 
from the busy scenes of life, its cares, occupations, and 
distractions, to devote one’s entire attention to re¬ 
ligious matters, to examination of conscience, to the 
exciting of the soul to contrition, to a thorough con¬ 
fession of all one’s faults and misdeeds ; and by a fer¬ 
vent communion to obtain strength from above to lead 
a better life henceforth. If for all such exercises be 
useful, nay necessary, how much more so for the poor 
souls, who, like the French soldier, are exposed to the 
contaminating influence of infidelity, superadded to 
other dangers. This truth is felt and acted on by 
thousands in every walk in society. At the time of 
which we speak, the Lazarists (a noble body of ec¬ 
clesiastics, whose aim is to bring all to heaven by the 
holy exercises of religion) had charge of the Hotel des 
Invalides. It seems that the time required for such 
a retreat was from thirty to forty days, during which 
the person was to study his religion, hear instructions, 
and prepare for his confession,—a task not always 
agreeable to the wordly-minded, nor flattering to the 
pride of opinion. Be that as it may, fools will deride, 
while wise men love it. To the old French soldier, 
so long unused to religious restraint, so unaccustomed 
amid the excitement of wars and camps to call on 
God’s holy name, save perhaps in curses and maledic¬ 
tions, this restraint was doubtless irksome. Yet if it 
was the rule, why should he be exempt rather than 
we, who “ bongre malgre ” have to submit to tem¬ 
poral inconveniences against our feelings, wishes, and 
efforts? Our old soldier was admitted into the 



THE PROTESTANT SOLDIER. 


205 


asylum under most favorable auspices. lie bad never 
given himself much trouble on the score of religion, 
but it was natural to suppose he was a Catholic. He 
had lost an arm, and was highly esteemed by his 
superior officers. Like all others, both officers and 
privates, he was required to go through the exercises 
of the spiritual retreat. At first he seemed well 
enough satisfied, but as the pious missionary urged 
him to prepare his confession, he rebelled. They 
knew not he was, or professed to be a Protestant. He 
who for thirty years had said no prayer to God 
save in bitter curses on the foes of France, who knew 
no other deity than his own passions, and had never 
known a thought or wish beyond the present, and the 
glory of the French arms, could ill brook the humili¬ 
ating ordeal of self-accusation. He broke forth into 
oaths and curses. His spiritual directors were terri¬ 
fied, and reported the case to the officer in command. 
He was summoned to answer for his conduct, and in 
reply to a question whether he had blasphemed the 
holy name of God, he frankly stated that he had not 
served thirty years in the armies of his Majesty to 
learn to lie. He owned he had done as accused, and 
blamed the missionaries for it, as they had wished 
him, a Protestant, to go to confession! The matter 
was thus explained; he was, of course, exempted, and 
as the rules of the house prescribed that none should 
be admitted without conforming to its requirements, 
he took the pension provided by law, and retired to 
his family. What a source of honest pride to the 
Frenchman is this asylum ! How exultingly can he 
point to it, and exclaim: let the other nations of the 


206 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


earth show any thing to equal it in grandeur of idea, 
and in gratitude of purpose ! All thanks then to 
Louis XIY., who, amid the seductions of a depraved 
court, the excitements of half a century of 'wars, for¬ 
got not the old soldier, hut erected this noble edifice, 
where, from the high-ways and by-ways, from the 
various convents and charitable institutions in and 
around Paris, these war-worn relics of the times of 
Henry IY. and Louis XIII. and his own wars, might 
find repose ! Where after them the soldiers of the 
Republic, the Empire, the Restoration and again the 
Empire, might pass the evening of life in security— 
because, whatever may have been their guiding star, 
France was the home they loved, the port to which 
they steered. Sublime was the object, grand the ac¬ 
complishment. Well might the enthusiastic Montes¬ 
quieu exclaim : “ The Hotel des Invalides is the most 
interesting place on earth ! I would rather have the 
glory of founding such a house, were I king, than 
gain three battles ! ” It is a rallying point for youth¬ 
ful ardor, it keeps alive that military enthusiasm, 
which forms a portion of every Frenchman’s charac¬ 
ter, it elevates and ennobles man’s earthly ambition, 
for it proves that “ La belle France ” appreciates the 
sacrifices of her sons. It is a beacon light whose rays 
are seen and admired in early childhood, and the 
little boy in self-importance beats his mimic drum on 
the “ field of Mars,” the “ Champs Elysees,” the 
a Esplanade,” “ Place Yendome,” or gambols in play 
amid the gardens of the “ Tuileries,” looking at its 
palaces or feeding the swans which float upon the 
graceful lakes. The youth grows to manhood, and 


INSCRIPTION. 


207 


catches the ardor of patriotic fire, he listens to and 
admires the deeds there reflected ; and as he kneels 
to breathe his vow of allegiance to his king and 
country, he hears in the trumpet’s blasts, the cannon’s 
roar, and the tramp of war, but an echo from the 
“ Hotel des Invalides.” * Ho wonder the French are 
born soldiers! no wonder they know how to stand 
and fight, and fall in myriads, but know not how to 
run. The very boys are soldiers, and from IiaVre to 
Marseilles, from Strasbourg to Bordeaux, the spirit of 
the sires is reflected in the little urchins, who, bare¬ 
headed and barelegged, yet with toy drum, trumpets 
and wooden gun, marshal their little armies, and fight 
in sport the battles of u La grande Nation.” From 
the tombs of Napoleon and Turenne, of Duroc and 
Yauban, a voice is heard calling her sons to glory, 
while religion seeks to elevate and sanctify their 
ardor, as she points them to the church and altars of 
the “ Hotel des Invalides.” But let us retrace our 
steps to the main entrance, cross the dyke, and turning 
to the right, proceed to the grand entrance of the 
Church des Invalides on the “ Place Yauban.” We 
turn to take a view of the principal or front entrance 
to the building: a triumphal arch resting on ornamen¬ 
tal columns supports a large bas-relief of Louis XIY. 
on horseback. Several other figures,, among which 
are Prudence, Justice, Mars, Minerva, and a head of 
Hercules in white marble, adorn this entrance. The 
following inscription, in Latin, is engraved on the 
pedestal which supports the figure of the king: 


208 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


LUDOVICUS MAGNUS 
MILITIBUS, REGALI MUNIFICENTIA, 
IN PERPETITUM PROYIDENS 
HAS ^EDES POSUIT 

ANNO 1675. 


Louis XIV. the Great, wishing to provide for the 
welfare of the soldiers, inaugurated this edifice 1675. 


CHAPTER XYII. 


Exterior of Church and Dome des Invalides—Interior of Church and Dome 
des Invalides—Lovely effect of Church and Dome des Invalides—Chapel 
of St. Jerome, the temporary tomb of Napoleon I.—Description of Cof¬ 
fin, &c.—Permanently deposited—Napoleon on St. Helena—Unjust 
treatment—Last illness and death of Napoleon—Removal of remains to 
France by Louis Philippe—Incidents of the removal—Reception by the 
King at the Invalides—Guard of old Soldiers around tomb—Old Officer’s 
account of the battle of Borodino, and the crossing of the Beresina— 
Abbe Benoit—Narrow Escape of Vaudeville. 



ROM the interesting spot where we have so long 


lingered, we will now .retrace our steps to the 
“ Boulevard des Invalides,” and proceed to the South 
front of the Church, which is opposite the “ Place 
Yauban,” a lovely semicircular park. Standing in 
the centre of Place de Yauban, and leaning against a 
giant oak, I gazed in mingled awe and wonder on 
this majestic church, till then the most imposing I 
had seen, and since, lacking in my opinion but the 
extended semicircular colonnade, the fountains, and 
extent, to be no miniature rival of St. Peter’s at Rome. 
Yuly is this edifice worthy the age of Louis XIY., 


210 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


which, however degenerate and unworthy. the suc¬ 
cessors of St. Louis, must he acknowledged the golden 
age of French architecture. I will attempt hut a 
brief description of the exterior. The fagade or front 
is composed, as well as I can express it, of a double 
gallery of columns and pilasters,, one above the other, 
the lower of Grecian Doric, the upper Ionic. Behind 
these are corresponding windows. A square platform 
is reached* by a lofty flight of steps, and the main 
altar is beautifully ornamented. The dome, from 
which the church takes its name, is justly considered 
a master-piece, as I stated before. On the platform 
are six Doric marble columns, behind which are six 
pilasters. On this stage or floor are two large niches, 
each ornamented with a pedestal. In the western one 
stands a statue of St. Louis, armed as a crusader. In 
the eastern, Charlemagne in his imperial robes. Above 
these Doric columns and entablature rises another 
row of Corinthian columns. On this floor are several 
statues that I could not distinguish plainly. A tym¬ 
panum surmounts this, which has doubtless undergone 
many changes in its ornaments. Standing on ped¬ 
estals above the first or Doric cornice are four co¬ 
lossal figures, personating Self-reliance, Perseverance, 
Humility, and Magnanimity; on each side of the 
tympanum a high balustrade extends the whole 
length of the church. Mansard, the daring architect, 
was thirty years in the completion of this dome. It 
was finished somewhere about 1700. Originally 
it was to designate the centre of the “ Hotel des In- 
validesbut as successive additions were made, and 
walks or squares added, the original object was 


THE CHURCH. 


211 


% 

changed, and we read that from 1675 to 1735 the 
most distinguished artists of France were employed in 
beautifying the fagade and dome. Above the tym¬ 
panum rises a square foundation or basis which not 
only gives a greater elevation to the building, hut 
serves as a basis for forty columns of composite order, 
beautifying and imparting strength to the dome. 
Twelve large windows admit light to the interior. 
Above this is another dome, ornamented exteriorly 
with columns, pedestals, windows, and countless de¬ 
vices, the bare names of which are enigmas to me. 
An open stone balustrade surrounds this second dome. 
Above this again rises high in air a cupola, or lan¬ 
tern, surrounded by an iron railing. Interiorly the 
church of the dome which, it will be remembered, is 
divided by the altar and sanctuary, and a bronze 
railing from the church “ des Soldats,” forms a Greek 
cross fifty-six strides from side to side. On certain 
days the gates between this and the Church of the 
Soldiers are thrown open, that visitors may enter from 
the former to the latter; four enormous pillars sup^ 
port the double dome; four smaller ones above them 
correspond to the corners of the base above. Each 
of the four lower arches serves as the entrance to as 
many different chapels; Sts. Jerome, Ambrose, 
Augustin, and Gregory. Here, as in the second 
dome of the Pantheon, a singular effect is produced 
by the light admitted by windows concealed from the 
visitor on the floor beneath; the effect is however 
Still grander here. On the left, as we enter, repose 
for the present the remains of Hapoleon I. in the 
chapel of St. Jerome. Here reposes the idol of the 


212 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


French nation, surrounded by the sacred atmosphere 
of religion, watched over by his old soldiers, under 
the shadow of the altar of the God of Armies, and 
amid the tombs of his noblest generals. Hither come 
crowds of every age and rank in life, to gaze upon 
the scene, ere the honored remains are removed to 
the splendid crypt in the centre of the church. Over 
this chapel are three beautiful gilt medallions, one of 
which represents the Pope blessing St. Louis. Bas 
reliefs, representing some of the prophets—Charity 
—angels with extended wings, bearing laurel crowns 
and French flags ; St. Louis, nursing the sick on the 
battle-field; the same saint, carrying the crown of 
thorns in procession, and distributing alms to the 
poor—many such adorn the walls, cross-section, and 
arches of the tombs and chapels. The coffin of Na¬ 
poleon is of ebony, exceedingly heavy ; on its lid, as 
we read, is the simple word Napoleon ! A name 
which speaks its own history. This is enclosed in a 
temporary sarcophagus, ornamented very simply with 
bronze devices; this again is enclosed in a second 
case of lead, which is richly adorned with gilded 
castings ; on this we read the words : 

napoleon, 

EMPEROR ET ROI, 

MORT A SAINT HELENE, 

LE V. MAI, 

MDCCCXXI. 

The case is covered with a richly-ornamented pall 
of purple, and is elevated about six feet from the 


NAPOLEON S BODY. 


213 


floor; at its foot towards the bronze railing in front 
of the door of the chapel is an old-fashioned stand, or 
ottoman, and on it rest the grand cordon of the 
Legion of Honor worn by the Emperor, the beautiful 
sword presented by the city of Paris, when he was 
elected First Consul, and the grand collar which was 
used at his coronation. On the 5th May, 1841, the 
city of Cherbourg presented a golden crown, as 
having offered the first funeral honors to the remains 
of the Emperor on their reaching France in the frigate 
“ La Belle Poule.” This crown w T as placed the same 
day on the imperial coffin by the Mayor and civil 
authorities of Cherbourg. On the sword, which was 
the favorite one of the Emperor, and worn by him at 
Austerlitz and at all his principal battles, a simple yet 
a beautiful affair, rests the identical hat, worn by Ha- 
poleon at the memorable battle of Eylau in 1807, of 
which we have an interesting statement from the lips 
of one of the few who lived to tell the tale; we will 
introduce it later. This is indeed an interesting relic ; 
its history is briefly this : It formerly stood in the 
library of the “ Hotel des Invalides,” of which we 
have spoken. It came into the possession of the 
Baron Gros, a celebrated artist, who copied it in his 
painting of the battle of Eylau. In 1835 it was sold 
together with the other personal effects of the Baron, 
who had committed suicide ; the price given for it by 
Monsieur La Croix, a physician of Orleans, was 2040 
francs. By him it was presented to the “ Hotel des 
Invalides,” on the occasion of the Emperor’s funeral. 
At the head of the coffin is a pyramid surmounted 
with a large ball, on which is perched a golden eagle 


214 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


with extended wings; and aronnd the sarcophagus 
the sixty-five flags concealed in 1814, when the others 
were burned, droop mournfully over the warrior’s 
coffin. The chapel is hung in black: a sombre light 
is admitted by the cupola, and. lamps are ever burning 
around the catafalca. The silence deep and solemn 
pervading-the spot, the subdued whispering of the 
groups, which are admitted single file by the old 
guards of the Emperor, the enthusiasm which kindles 
in almost every eye, and the respectful earnestness, 
with which every one asks and is informed of even 
the minutest details—there is something in all this 
grand and overpowering. Here then sleeps the hero 
of so many battles, the bright meteor of France, the 
Alaric of his age ; like him the scourge not of God, 
but of the world ! unlike him seeking in the aids of 
religion pardon from man, mercy from heaven ! How 
hard it seemed to realize that I was gazing on the 
narrow coffin of that colossus who bestrode all Europe! 
And is it to be wondered at, that as my eyes rested 
on the words extracted from his will, words so replete 
with affection and dignity, engraved in golden letters 
above the door, descending to the subterranean crypt 
destined for his final resting-place : 

U JE DESIRE QTJE MES CENDRES REPOSENT 
“ SUR LES BORDS DE LA SEINE, 

“ AtT MILLIEU DE CE PEUPLE FRANQAIS 
“ QBE j’AI TANT AIME.” 

I wish that my ashes should repose on the borders 
of the Seine in the midst of the French people , whom 


ST. HELENA. 


215 


I have loved so much / is it surprising that even I 
should catch a spark of that enthusiasm which fires 
the bosom of every pilgrim to this shrine of fallen 
greatness ? I could but think of the treachery, by 
which the proud eagle had been caged, of the hated 
insolence of Sir Hudson Lowe, the most inglorious 
jailer of the most illustrious captive that the fate of 
war ever prostrated. I could but remember the 
trusting confidence with which the defeated hero 
threw himself as a prisoner of war upon the honor of 
England, on the 15th July, 1815, in the harbor of 
Rocheford, and of the characteristic baseness with 
which that trust was repaid on the Bellerophon. I 
could but hear again the cry of anguish which es¬ 
caped Napoleon, as from the rock-bound coast of St. 
Helena on arriving he stretched his arms towards 
France and exclaimed : “ Farewell, land of the brave, 
a few less traitors, and thou shalt be mistress of the 
world ! ” lam no politician or essayist, but in com¬ 
mon with all who admire honesty even among rogues, 
I could but feel that the day of retribution for Napo¬ 
leon’s treatment must come. “ The lone barren rock,” 
so long his prison and his tomb, the wild surges 
of old ocean, dashing and thundering at its base, 
the hoarse screaming of birds of prey, as they sail and 
float amid its volcanic peaks, the arid soil which re¬ 
fused cultivation, the almost total destitution of water, 
the fatal atmosphere of the Indian Ocean, all these 
Napoleon may have looked on often, and bowed his 
proud head to their superiority,—but to what shall 
we trace the b4se persecution which embittered the 
remnant of his days ? Was it not enough that he had 


216 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


fallen! Was it not enough that for the hero of 
Wagram and Austerlitz, of Eylau, Marengo, Arcole, 
the Pyramids, Moscow, Borodino, Leipsic and Water¬ 
loo, the sun of glory had set for ever! Was it not 
enough that for seventy days he had been tossed upon 
the ocean, as the Northumberland bore him, a be¬ 
trayed prisoner, from the scene of his glory to the 
prison England had appointed! Was it not enough 
that the mountain hid the hero who had never sur¬ 
rendered a flag, or shrunk from a foe! O! was it 
not enough that he was then a prisoner, a captive, be¬ 
trayed hut never conquered ; pining like the prisoned 
eagle, and at the mercy of his captors, was not this 
enough for even British vengeance! No ! living wit¬ 
nesses attest that every species of petty tyranny was 
used to humble the spirit already broken, not bent! 
His faithful adherents, whom English policy allowed 
to accompany him, and share his captivity, were for¬ 
bidden to call him Emperor, and the noble few, long 
accustomed to hail him by that title, were ordered to 
drop it towards their glorious chief! The simplest 
necessaries of life were often wanting. The counter¬ 
feit of humanity, but impersonation of hatred and 
wrong, Sir Hudson Lowe, like all other tj^rants and 
cowards, feared the appeal, which in self-defence his 
imperial captive sought to make to the honor of the 
British throne, and refused to forward any despatch, 
unless couched as he thought proper. Yerily the 
way of the transgressor is hard! How hast thou 
fallen, thou mighty one ! The arbiter of nations, now 
suing for a cup of unstale water! Thou, the terror* of 
kings, the thunderbolt of Jove, now dictated to and 


HIS RELIGIOUS FEELINGS. 217 

crushed by one, who but yesterday would have held 
thy stirrup ! Napoleon, God is great! In the day of 
your glory you forgot Him, and lo ! as the dust before 
the wind, as the dried stick that is broken, you are cast 
aside ! It is well. From your ocean prison lift your 
heart to Him ! And even the roaring ocean and 
stormy wind will bear your prayers aloft! Pardon me, 
kind reader, for dwelling on this point. Who that has 
read it, who that admits God is great, and that His 
mercy never faileth, but must admire the triumph of 
faith in the death of Napoleon! See him ere the blow 
of death has prostrated him. See him in calmness 
and composure reasoning with one of his old generals 
and companions of his exile on St. Helena, and con¬ 
cluding: “You do not admit that Jesus Christ is God! 
I was wrong in making you a General! ” See him 
in all the candid simplicity of a man forced in spite 
of pride, ambition, and every worldly motive, to ad¬ 
mit the supremacy of the Chair of Peter, whose 
authority he had outraged, and whose incumbent he 
had wronged ; see him, I say, as related by one of the 
voluntary sharers of his captivity, expressing his indig¬ 
nation and regret at the repeated appeals to him, when 
in the zeni th of his glory, to throw off all allegiance to 
the Church of Pome, to start even a new system of 
religion, and proclaim himself, as Henry YIII. of 
England had before him, “ Head and Front ” of the 
new dispensation! “Once,” said Napoleon to Ber¬ 
trand or Beautherne, “ as I was pressed to yield to 
such suggestions, I stopped the speaker, and said, 
that’s enough, Sir ! Do you want me also to be cruci¬ 
fied f He looked at me surprised. I know, said I, 
10 


218 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


this is not your idea, nor is it mine, but it was neces¬ 
sary for the true religion. And I neither know, nor 
wish to know, any other.” See him, as I have often 
seen the humblest Catholic, sign himself with the sign 
of the cross, when any wild, extravagant, or infidel 
idea was expressed in his presence, and he would call 
on the holy name of Jesus! Proud, broken spirit, 
thou who hast rivalled Nabuchodonosor, Cyrus, Alex¬ 
ander, Cesar, and Charlemagne! In the words of a 
modern Christian writer: “ Napoleon, the incar¬ 

nation of military and civil genius, turned his eyes 
towards that Pome, which he had so often persecuted, 
and begged for a catholic priest to receive his dying 
confession ; and to reconcile him with the See of St. 
Peter ! ” See him on his bed of death, from the 27th 
April, 1821; till his last moment he occupied himself 
exclusively with spiritual matters. The Abbe Yignali, 
like himself from Corsica, attends him, he hears his 
confession, and such a confession! Yet steeped in 
crime, in sacrilege and sin, as was the soul of his pen¬ 
itent, why should the humble priest permit the dying 
one to despair of God’s mercy ! Countless as were 
the records against him, and piercing as were the 
shrieks of millions, crying for vengeance from almost 
every foot of ground in Europe, still, the victim of 
calvary was before him, and he knew that an humble 
and a contrite heart God never despised ! He listens 
to his tale of woe, he shows him the mercy of God, he 
cheers his desponding spirit, he unfolds a bright eter¬ 
nity to the view of him who will place his confidence 
in the atoning merits of his Saviour, and strive to co¬ 
operate with His adorable requests. Napoleon be- 


HIS DEATH. 


219 


lieves—lie always believed—he had repeatedly ad¬ 
mitted that the sight of a priest always impressed him 
with reverence, that pride and interest overcame his 
respect, he owns that God alone is great, he proclaims 
that he was lorn a Catholic , and he desires to die in 
the losom of that holy religion. He receives most 
fervently the adorable Viaticum, Extreme TJnction, and 
the last Benediction. He passes the night in exercises 
of piety, and when the noble Montholon entered his 
chamber the following morning, Napoleon smiled and 
whispered: “ General, I am happy ! I have tried to 
perform my Christian duties, and I hope that at your 
death you may have the same blessing ! I had need 
of it! I am an Italian, a Corsican, I never heard the 
sound of a church bell without emotions of piety, nor 
saw a priest without wishing to testify my respect, 
but I was hindered by pride, I was wrong ; I wished 
at first to conceal all this, but I cannot; I ought, and 
I do give glory to God'; I do not think I shall recover; 
no matter, General, God’s holy will be done! ” Such 
were Napoleon’s dying sentiments. Truly God is 
great, and of His mercies there is no end ! He gave 
directions from his bed of death for an altar to be 
erected in an adjoining room, on which the Blessed 
Sacrament might be exposed, and before which the 
devotion of the “ Forty Hours ” was observed. His 
mind wanders, but amid the excitement of that mili¬ 
tary soul thoughts of religion are uppermost. “ I 
wished to unite all the sects of Christianity. I had 
arranged with Alexander at Tilsit, but reverses came 
too suddenly. I hope I have done something towards 
re-establishing religion in France. What can man do 


220 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


without religion ? I would wish to see my wife and 
son before I die, but God’s holy will be done ! ” Ke- 
peatedly he received the holy Yiaticum, and always 
addressed words of edification to the group of officers 
and attendants around his bed. At length, on the 3d 
May, 1821, he took leave of all, declaring that he 
forgave all, and begged all to forgive him. He 
crosses his hands upon his bosom, and the last effort 
of his mighty mind was to exclaim, “ my God!” 
Some incoherent expressions escaped him subsequent¬ 
ly, and on the 5th of May, 1821, at 6 p. m. Hapoleon 
died! 

St. Helena! St. Helena! Thy fate has yet to be 
written. Tyrant and monster, Sir Hudson Lowe, the 
opprobrium of mankind is on thee ! “The snare of 
the fowler is broken,” and the ransomed spirit of thy 
captive is free. The jailer of Hapoleon was a faithful 
officer, he put his captive under a safe lock and key, 
even the grave ! The secrets of that grave have yet 
to be revealed,,and England and her jailer will yet 
hear them. With countless other heavy debts this is 
going on, heaping interest on interest, until the day 
of reckoning shall come; when the roll of Albion’s 
drum, which now never ceases, shall beat her funeral 
knell, and the flag that the sun never sets upon shall 
be lowered in disgrace. Grant that Hapoleon was 
her natural foe, that he had deluged Europe in blood, 
that he was a wild beast, which it was duty to slay, 
grant all this and more, still was he not napoleon ! a 
hero, a soldier, an emperor, a prisoner of war! And 
was he not in the name of each entitled to honorable 
treatment? What is more dignified than fallen 


LOUIS PHILIPPE. 


221 


greatness ? Napoleon a prisoner! What more nohle 
than magnanimity in the captor, generosity in suc¬ 
cess ? Pagan generals practised it, and here blessed 
Christian England refused it, and is cursed. Let it 
go ! It is in keeping with her other deeds. She 
never kept a treaty, how could she show mercy ? 
Will it be considered out of place, if I dwell for a 
moment on the interesting ceremonies connected with 
the removal of Napoleon’s remains in 1840 from their 
distant tomb on St. Helena to this spot he loved so 
dearly, and where he desired to be buried “ on the 
borders of the Seine ? ” Surely to any bosom alive to 
the grand and beautiful such scenes must possess in¬ 
terest. Unknown to the French people the govern¬ 
ment of Louis Philippe had been negotiating the re¬ 
moval of the remains of the Emperor. England was 
but too willing to be rid of them ; for she saw in them 
but the mystic writing on Balshazzar’s walls, pro¬ 
claiming at once her ignominy and her coming doom. 
The French government, on the point of war with 
other European powers, saw in the movement it may 
be an act of national justice, but doubtless saw more 
clearly a master-stroke of policy; a movement which 
would enkindle from North to South the martial 
spirit of the “ grand armee,” and convince its enemies 
that in case of need the volunteers of 1793, troops 
like the “ Colonne Infernale,” as it was called, mar¬ 
shalling “ les Grenadiers Frangais” of Oudinot, con¬ 
spicuous on every battle-field of France, could again 
be called into action. Be the fact as it may, time 
has proved that Louis Philippe was right in both 
cases. In the columns of different French journals, 


222 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


and among them the “ Moniteur” of December, kindly 
loaned me by my friend, Senor Calderon de la Barca, I 
read or rather refreshed what I remembered indistinct¬ 
ly from the National Intelligencer published in Wash¬ 
ington city. Seated cozily in a corner of the church 
“ des Soldats,” which my reader will remember forms 
the other portion of this temple, on a morning in Nov., 
1855, I read and read again on the spot what had 
transpired. How my soul was excited! To others 
, be the task of reading in a comfortable parlor facts 
and scenes like these, mine be the mental luxury of 
fighting them over and over again on the spot (even 
though shivering with cold). Never had ship left 
port laden with more hearty prayers than “ La Belle 
Poule” for that frowning entrance to Pluto’s regions, 
St. Helena. The Prince de Joinville, second son of 
Louis Philippe, was commander. From one extremity 
of France to the other, enthusiasm was at its height; 
but here, where 1 now am, it surpassed all bounds : 
no one, unaccustomed to the old French soldier, his 
excitability, his martial fire, and idolatrous love for 
the name of “ l’Empereur Napoleon,” can form an 
idea of the wild joy of these veterans. Will it be be¬ 
lieved, there were among them the remnants of 
Wagram, Austerlitz, and Waterloo; many who 
would shake their wooden stumps in anger at the 
French government, because a whole fleet was not 
sent to bring back in triumph him, whom they could 
never believe to be dead, though the storms and 
winds of nineteen years had sung his requiem. The 
ship arrives at St. Helena ; let us pass over the details 
of the landing,the opening of the grave, the almost per- 


LA BELLE POULE. 


223 


feet preservation of the coffin, winding sheet, habili¬ 
ments and uniform of the Emperor, who had been 
buried in his military dress, and whose countenance 
was instantly recognized amid the sobs and sighs, the 
tears and exclamations of officers, soldiers, and noble 
old tars of “ La Belle Poule.” Let us pass over the 
mournful ceremonies of religion, performed on the 
spot by the Abbe Coquerau, chaplain of the French 
frigate. And let us listen to the booming cannon in 
the harbor of Cherbourg on the 3d of November, 
1840, proclaiming that the ashes of Napoleon have 
reached “ la belle France! ” What enthusiasm seizes 
the people! The conquering hero comes! The pro¬ 
scribed victim of St.Iielena! Not on the fiery charger 
at the head of conquering hosts—not amid war’s 
desolation or the groan of slaughtered millions—but 
amid the earthly triumphs of death—amid the tears 
and acclamations of a nation—enthusiast if you will, 
nay vain and empty, yet national! On the 8th of 
December the coffin is placed on board the “ Nor¬ 
mandie,” which proceeds to Havre with its convoy. 
From Havre to Rouen it is a triumphal procession. 
For one hundred and fifty miles along both sides of 
the Seine crowds gathered to accompany the funeral 
cortege. The day of glory for Paris and the “ Hotel 
des Invalides ” has come. The 15th of December, 
1840, opened on Paris cold, drizzly, and gloomy, yet 
nothing could damp the ardor of her zeal. Every ac¬ 
cessible spot on roof, and tree, and wall, and street, 
was occupied from an early hour. At Courberoy, a 
short distance from the city, a temporary chapel was 
erected, where the coffin was received by the clergy, 


224 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


and the usual religious ceremonies observed. The 
funeral car forms a lofty mausoleum or pyramid, richly 
adorned with purple drapery, reaching to the ground ; 
at each angle of the car is a colossal gilded eagle, 
bearing a laurel wreath. Sixteen horses, richly ca¬ 
parisoned and adorned with trappings of the empire, 
are attached to this car. The coffin is placed on this 
catafalca, and the four principal officers of France 
carry the four cords attached to the funeral pall. 
Thirty-two statues adorn the esplanade from the banks 
of the Seine on the North to the railing of the Hotel. 
They are the most glorious warriors of France. At 
the entrance of the railing a splendid canopy is 
erected, beneath which the funeral car with its glo¬ 
rious deposit halts. The official process of the recep¬ 
tion of the remains is here read in presence of the 
civil and military authorities. It set forth that in 
virtue of the law of the 10th of June, 1840, the mortal 
remains of Napoleon I. were brought back to France, 
that they had been juridically identified, that they 
were contained in six different cases or coffins, etc. 
The king, in uniform of National Guard, arrives at 
noon with his family, the ministers of State and War, 
the Marshals of Franee, the Chamber of Peers and of 
Deputies, Council of State, etc. The Court officers 
and the heads of the army were here assembled. At 
2 p. m. a salute of 21 guns announced the entry of 
the imperial coffin within the church. Louis Philippe 
is seated on his throne, the princes, princesses, and 
the queen on his right and left. At the front door 
the Archbishop of Paris and his clergy receive the 
corpse, and recite the prescribed prayers. The “ De 


REQUIEM. 


225 


Profundis” is entoned, and, led by the Abbe 
Coquereau, the cortege enters, accompanied by an 
escort of wounded veterans, from among the in¬ 
mates of the asylum. Three hundred musicians in 
unison perform a funeral march as the procession ad¬ 
vances to the foot of the throne. The kins: descends 
with his sons and aids to the platform, where the 
coffin is deposited. The gallant commander of “La 
Belle Poule,” standing at the head of his sailors, to 
whom it was given to bear the imperial corpse, ad¬ 
dresses the king: “Sire” said the Prince de Join- 
ville, “ I present you the body of the Emperor Napo¬ 
leon ! ” 

“I receive the offering in the name of France ,” re¬ 
plied the king with a loud voice. The Emperor’s 
sword, of which we have spoken, was then presented 
on a purple cushion to Louis Philippe, who, addressing 
the old Count Bertrand, said : “ General, this is the 
sword of the day of Austerlitz, place it on the coffin 
of the Emperor Napoleon! ” 

High mass of Requiem is offered for the soul of 
the Emperor; and amid the most solemn ceremonies, 
prayers, and observances, the evening closes. Truly 
it was a memorable day ! Here “ he sleeps his last 
sleep,” amid the old warriors who followed his proud 
eagles through sandy deserts, and frozen regions! 
What more fitting guard for Napoleon’s remains than 
the old soldiers who had known his rise, his glory, 
and his fall. And here they come, those war-worn 
veterans, with faces bronzed by the sun of Egypt, or 
the colds of Russia; with the sad recollections of glory 
passed, and the honest pride of victory achieved; with 
10 * 


226 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


the din of war yet sounding in their ears, the roar of 
cannon, the meeting of embattled hosts, the clash of 
arms, the groans and shrieks of the dying, the charge, 
the repulse, the victory, the defeat, all passing in recol¬ 
lection before them! Here they are, that faithful few 
left from the fatal fields of Borodino, the most bloody 
and obstinate, for its numbers, that time or history re¬ 
cords ; the noble few left from the many thousands led 
by a Monbrun, a Caulincourt, and thirty other slaugh¬ 
tered generals; and of fifty-two thousand killed, and 
thirty-eight thousand wounded! One old warrior gave 
me some interesting details. “ We were nearly dead,” 
said he, “ when we espied Moscow. O, ours was a glo¬ 
rious army, half a million strong, when we saw the 
Kremlin, and the spires and crosses of the city. The 
Emperor rode up full gallop, and his eyes were full 
of fire, as he gazed on the city. What cared we for 
cold, or hunger, or fatigue, when the Emperor was 
there. I remember well the day we entered Moscow. 
It was the 14th September, 1812. We expected to 
have some fighting, but the whole city was as silent 
as death. The only noise we heard was our own 
music, and the tramping of our own horses. Every 
body had gone, and that wonderful city Moscow, its 
palaces, churches, and dwellings, seemed, as if the in¬ 
habitants had just left them. We even found the 
dinners on the tables, and the beds as if they had been 
but just occupied. Our troops soon had comfortable 
quarters. The Emperor and his staff occupied the 
Kremlin or royal palace, but we were soon ousted. I 
was corporal of my company, and was on duty on 
the night of the 15th. I was ordered by the com- 


RETREAT FROM MOSCOW. 


227 


raanding officer to carry despatches to the Emperor, 
a tire was raging in the north part of the city. We 
had no means of extinguishing it. The Emperor 
heeded but little this affair; but the fire raged more 
and more, and for three days and nights it seemed as 
if the heavens and the earth were in a blaze. Many 
of our soldiers were consumed. We retreated. The 
Emperor swore and raged, as he left the Kremlin, 
which was soon blown up, and all that was left of 
Moscow was a heap of ruins! We had conquered 
the holy city of the Muscovites, but we got only a 
heap of ashes. O, Monsieur l’Americain,” continued 
he, u it was a fearful sight.” “ And a right noble deed 
too,” said I, “ to burn rather than to surrender their 
city.” “ Yes, yes,” said he, “ it was worthy even La 
grande Armee! ” 

Here then were gathered, of the 647,158 who 
started on that ill-fated campaign, the few maimed 
and shattered relics of Napoleon’s ambition. Here, 
too, were a few, now worn down with years, or dis¬ 
abled by w T ounds, who survived the dreadful 28th and 
29th of November, 1812, where at the crossing of the 
river Beresina (in Russia), the French army vied with 
its Emperor in deeds of daring and endurance. I 
spoke with one who had been in the midst of all those 
horrors. He was every inch a soldier, that is, what 
was left of him ; for he had lost an eye, an arm, and 
a leg ; while a gash on his forehead showed, that he 
had fallen with his face to the foe. He came near 
being captured among the sixteen thousand prisoners, 
but little better than the fifty odd thousand, their 
companions in arms, left dead upon the field! Of 


228 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


tlie well-disciplined hosts Napoleon led to the Rus¬ 
sian campaign, hut a confused mass, numbering about 
fifty thousand, was left to march towards Wilna. The 
prestige of 4 La grande Armee ’ was destroyed. “ Ma 
foi,” exclaimed the old man, shrugging his shoulders, 
“ that was a terrible time at the bridge of the Beresina ! 
We thought we had hard times at Borodino, where 
the Russians fought us like demons. They were de¬ 
termined to hinder us from entering Moscow; but, 
ma foi, what could stop La grande Armee. Certes 
the Emperor was there, and we would have taken Mos¬ 
cow, if we had had to storm ! But at Borodino we 
had fair fight. The Russians are noble fellows, Mon¬ 
sieur, noble fellows! How we hated to take them 
off, hundreds at a time! but, ma foi, Monsieur 
l’Americain! La grande Armee must go en route. 
At the crossing of the Beresina, Monsieur, there w T e 
had hard times—we had a hundred thousand fighting 
men, when we left Moscow; in five and twenty days 
we had but thirty-six thousand capable of action ! Ah, 
Monsieur, if the Russians had only been wide awake 
they might have cut us off to a man at the Beresina. 
That is a villainous river, on the borders between 
Russia and Poland. It had no bridges, and we had 
to wade through marshes and mud. We had thirty 
thousand men, when we left Smolensk, a hundred and 
fifty cannons, besides a good supply of ammunition ; 
but when we reached the Beresina, we had only ten 
thousand of our ‘ Grande Armee,’ all in rags, and with 
scarcely a cannon! Oudinot and Victor soon joined 
us, however, and bettered our condition. On the 
night of the 24th November, we commenced throwing 


THE BERESINA. 


229 


two bridges across the river. The cold was excessive, 
and the ice floating down the rapid current annoyed 
us greatly. On the opposite side were thirty thousand 
Russians, and behind us, and below us, on the bank, 
were large armies of the enemy. Ah, Monsieur, 
then was the moment for Napoleon to show his skill! 
He was equal to the difficulty. Dombrowski, and 
Oudinot, and Victor were ordered to marshal their 
commands for one last, desperate struggle. We had 
some desperate fights ; the Emperor completely outwit¬ 
ting the Russians by pretending to build a bridge 
some miles lower than where we had actually built 
them. Oh ! never, Monsieur, can I forget the enthusi¬ 
asm of our noble soldiers while we were at that work. 
Our engineers worked wonders. Nothing could resist 
them. In freezing water up to their shoulders, and 
that for hours, they worked ; and when the Russians 
detected our real motive, and began to gather on the 
opposite side, and fire on us, Corbineau, with his gal¬ 
lant cavalry, swam across the river to drive them 
back. The enemy made a sad blunder, Monsieur, in 
concentrating their forces* where we had pretended to 
erect our bridge ; so that such of the French troops as 
crossed over had very little to do. On the night before 
the first troops crossed the bridge, Napoleon called a 
camp council. The officers were almost unanimous 
in their advice either to surrender as prisoners of war, 
or to provide a safe escort for the Emperor through the 
enemy’s files; but l’Empereur spurned their counsel, 
and ordered all the Eagles of the army to be burned be¬ 
fore him, lest they should fall into the enemy’s hands. 
On the 28th November the Russians attacked us on 


230 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


both sides of the river. Oudinot stood it bravely, Mon¬ 
sieur. He was on the right bank with the main body. 
The fight continued till midnight. "We lost about five 
thousand ; but this was nothing to the horrors of the 
left bank and the bridges. The enemy was there 
strong; we were weak ; they poured in their cannon 
from a good position, and raked the bridge fore and 
aft. Crowds were always pressing, but only a fevr 
could pass at a time, and the murderous fire of the 
Russians threw the women and stragglers into confu¬ 
sion : the scene, Monsieur, was awful! Oh ! they 
rushed like a torrent to cross the bridge,—horse, foot, 
infantry, cavalry, and artillery; crowds of helpless, 
sick men ; the families of the soldiers who had fol¬ 
lowed the army through all the horrors of the Russian 
campaign ; the snow, hail, and rain, driven by a per¬ 
fect hurricane; the roaring and dashing of the ice in 
the river, floating in huge piles and masses ; the infer¬ 
nal Russians, who kept up a constant fire; the balls 
falling thick and fast around us; the screams of the 
women; the groans of the dying ; the cursing of the 
soldiers; the dashing, headlong fury of the cavalry; 
horses dragging the cannon through and over the 
frantic crowds, ploughing them down in hundreds as 
they dashed ahead, even more fearfully than the en¬ 
emy’s fire in the rear, when—crash—in the midst of 
all this horror, the artillery bridge trembles ; it sways 
to and fro, and, with all upon it, sinks in the mad¬ 
dened river! And then, oh, Monsieur, what a scene 
followed ! I have been in many a battle, and have 
witnessed many a sight that even I myself sometimes 
think a dream; but the Beresina, Monsieur, the Ber- 


THE BERESINA. 


231 


esina beats them all! Our bridge was on tire; the 
frantic people rushed on over flames and dead bodies, 
only to plunge into the waves. Thousands perished 
thus, and twelve thousand dead bodies were after¬ 
wards found along the banks of the river. The crowd 
rushed on from the rear, ignorant of the breaking of 
the bridge, and, frightful as the moment was, (con¬ 
tinued the old soldier, who by this time was wrought 
up to a state of enthusiasm,) frightful as the scene was, 
I stopped, leaned against a pile of corpses who had 
been crushed-to death by the crowd, to see and hear 
the groans and struggles of the sufferers in the water, 
who by hundreds cried for help ; battled for a while 
with the rushing ice, then sank to rise no more. To 
keep back the crowds was impossible. On they rushed, 
or were pushed forward to the brink of the precipice, 
only to make the fearful plunge, to gasp, to struggle 
for a moment, and to sink beneath the ice and waves 
of the Beresina! Mothers holding their little infants 
high as they could, even while they themselves were 
sinking under the waters, or were mangled to death 
by the floating ice. I couldn’t stand it, Monsieur. I 
might as well die one way as another. I saw the cap¬ 
tains and officers harnessed like horses, to sledges, to 
save their drowning companions. I saw the French 
soldier carrying in his arms his commander, and 
breathing on him to keep him warm, while he’d strip 
himself of his old ragged jacket, or tattered carpet bag 
he had picked up somewhere for a coat, and put round 
his officer to keep him from freezing. I rushed on ; 
I plunged into the water, and caught a briglit-eyed, 
lovely little boy as his mother sank beneath the 


232 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


waves. Oh, Monsieur! my boy became a noble 
priest, the Abbe Filou ; but'he’s dead now, he’s dead 
too.” 

Need I add, that as the tears fell from the veteran’s 
eyes, another’s heart throbbed in unison—another’s 
cheek was moistened ? Heaven bless that good old 
man! How little did I think, as I listened to his 
thrilling tale of wars, of bloodshed, of embattled 
armies, of victory and defeat; how little did I think, 
as I hung in breathless silence on his simple and sub¬ 
lime eloquence, as his eye would flash with all the fire 
of military ardor, and his scarred and shattered frame 
literally quivered with excitement, while he would re¬ 
count the deeds of “ La grande Armee,” or dwell with 
idolatrous worship on “ l’Empereur Napoleon,” how 
little did I think that his was a heart to be softened 
to tears as he dwelt on the story of his adopted child, 
“ Benoit,” rescued from the surging Beresina! And 
yet that “ old man eloquent,” that veteran relic of 
wars and dangers, wept like a child when he told of 
Benoit! He had grown to youth and manhood, had 
entered the ecclesiastical state, had lived and died a 
holy priest, and the hand that rescued him from the 
ice and waves of the Beresina had closed his eyes in 
death. The old soldier had lived with his Benoit, 
whom he called “ Mon cher Abbe Benoit,” and by 
whom he had been loved with all the tenderness of a 
child. When the Abbe Filou died, the old soldier 
left the parish, came to Paris, and here he was a 
Christian and a relic. Oh! there is something noble 
after all in poor human nature. It is not all depraved. 
Here was a lovely scene. He loved his country and 


BENOIT. 


233 


his Emperor ; he fought and bled for them; he loved 
his noble boy, Benoit, and he wept for him. In his 
old age he felt alone, even amid trophies of victories 
he had helped to achieve, and shattered banners and 
frowning cannon he had helped to conquer! All he 
loved on earth was gone, and like the friendless bird 
of Noah, 

Beyond the ark he found himself alone ! 

His was a pure and holy love. Happy Benoit! 
Happy foundling of tlie Beresina ! Amid the horrors 
of the scene thy young spirit knew not, an all-guiding 
Providence watched over thee, and gave thee a friend 
indeed, a true friend, a gem of priceless worth : 

For friendship true, fresh gushing from the heart, 

Which knows no wiles, no false, deceitful art, 

Partakes of heaven, its origin above, 

Like the sweet union with which angels love. 

And such was the old soldier’s love for his boy Benoit. 
I could have embraced the old grenadier, for how sel¬ 
dom do we find such masterpieces of manhood! Who 
has not missed a friend ? Who has not wished, ’mid all 
the ills of life, its trials, sorrows, and crosses, as well 
as its sunshine and its happiness, to feel that he had a 
friend! Most of us can say, in the simple lines penned 
years ago: 

’Mid all this gloom, one bright, refulgent star 
Beams on the spirit from a world afar, 

To cheer man’s path, his doubts and fears control, 

’Tis Friendship hovering o’er the troubled soul! 

Blest boon of heaven! With all thy bliss be ours, 
Through fortune’s smiles, through sorrow’s gloomy hours, 
Thine be our joys, till at life’s gentle even, 

The joys of time shall blend with those of heaven! 


234 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


I remember to have read of several wlio liad subse¬ 
quently either become priests or entered some reli¬ 
gious Order, and among them, of Vaudeville, from 
Lorraine. He was a commander of lancers, and was 
the last to cross the bridge, exposed to the incessant 
fire of the enemy. When he saw the bridge in flames 
he plunged with his horse into the river, and right 
manfully battled with the floating ice, the timber and 
wrecked gun carriages, until he had almost reached 
the opposite bank. His strength failed him ; his noble 
charger, like his master, was exhausted ; a large cake 
of ice came rushing furiously against them; Vaude¬ 
ville bowed his head upon his horse’s neck, and re¬ 
signing himself to death, pronounced aloud the act of 
contrition. At the instant a cannon ball from the 
Kussians grazed the horse’s head. The noble animal 
rallied his strength, and with one wild, desperate 
bound, reached the shore with his rider! The life 
thus almost miraculously preserved Vaudeville conse¬ 
crated to God. He resigned his decoration of the le¬ 
gion of honor and his rank in the army, entered the 
seminary of Haney, in France, and became a pious 
priest. For many years he was procurator of the 
seminary of Mousson, and he always kept the noble 
old horse that saved him from the Beresina. 


CHAPTER XYHI. 


Cross of Gold in Moscow—Old Soldier relates Scenes in Moscow—Tomb 
of Turenne—Chapel of St. Gregory—Tombs of Bertrand and Duroc— 
Chapel of St. Andrew—Tomb of Vauban—Crypt, or Tomb of Napoleon— 
"Victims of Fieschi’s Infernal Machine—Reflections at the Tomb of Na¬ 
poleon—Meteor Career of the Emperor—His Character—Reflections on 
his Government—Napoleon’s Dream. 

T (TNXx had I listened to the interesting recital here 
briefly noticed; and my enthusiasm nearly equalled 
that of the old grenadier. Even at the risk of being 
censured for so long a digression, I cannot resist the 
impulse to give my readers some little of the rich 
treats I there feasted on. It may he censured by 
some, hut to others I know it will be of interest, for 
what can be more worthy our young men’s study, 
after the sacred truths of religion, than correct histo¬ 
ry ? And here I will add, that the facts as stated by 
the old soldier coincide almost mainly with Alison, 
Thiers, Korehebacker, Mausard, Mazas, Sequer, and 
other historians. For my part, I have always cher¬ 
ished a veneration for old soldiers and sailors. From 


236 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


each we ban learn much, as to each we are much in¬ 
debted. “ Tell me,” said I to my old friend, as for the 
fiftieth time we had promenaded up and down the 
44 Court du Dome,” 44 tell me if you saw that cross of 
gold which the Emperor intended for this dome?” 
44 Ma foi, Monsieur PAmericain, did I see it! "Why, I 
helped to throw it into the Lake. Ah! Monsieur, 
that was a pity. The Emperor saw it from a hill near 
Moscow, all glittering in the sun. He exclaimed, 
4 That shall go to the Hotel des Invalids, at ParisP He 
ordered it to be taken down ; a flock of crows hovered 
round the men*while they were at work; Napoleon 
stood with his arms folded, looking on; he shook his 
head and exclaimed, 4 Mauvais augur, 5 a bad omen ! 
It was an immense cross of solid gold, and when the 
Emperor saw that in our retreat from Moscow we 
could not carry it any further, he ordered it to be 
thrown into a lake we were passing. Oh ! Monsieur, 
that would have been a present from the great heart 
of the Emperor to the greatest institution in Eu¬ 
rope !” 

“There, 55 continued my old friend, 44 is an old relic of 
the Russian campaign; it bears evidences of hard-fought 
battles. There is a man who heard Marshal Ney re¬ 
ply to the Russian authorities on the banks of Loss- 
mina, November 18th, 1812: 4 A marshal of France 
never surrenders 5 ! He fought by the side of his 
brave commander, and was one of the few who sur¬ 
vived the dreadful Brasudi. He was with Ney when 
he re-crossed the Dnieper, and when the Cossacks 
tried to cut off his retreat; but the gallant marshal 
made good his plans, and I heard the Emperor ex- 


MARSHAL NEY. 


237 


claim: C I will give three hundred millions for the 
safety of Marshal Ney ’! I walked by the side of 
the Emperor when retreating from Brasudi; he march¬ 
ed on foot with only a sapling stick for a cane, while 
every man of us would have given his own life for 
the Emperor’s safety. Yonder is the last but three of 
the gallant ‘ old guard’ who followed Ney to victory 
and defeat. The last but three who crossed the bridge 
of Mudwred. Oh ! Mons. l’Americain, that was a 
gloomy time when our brave troops crossed the bridge 
on the 18th December, 1812. I don’t like to think of 
it; and then the noble Ney—oh, Mons. what a fate for 
such a soldier! 1 would have given iny life to save 

him. It did no good to Louis XVIII. I often go to 
the Luxembourg where they shot him: ” And here 
the old man absolutely sobbed aloud ! I parted with 
my old soldier friend with regret. It was his hour, 
he said, to say his “ little office for the dead.” A 
devotion he always observed for the repose of the 
soul of his “Cher Benoit”! Blessings on the old 
man; may the weight of years ever rest as lightly on 
thee as now ; may thy firm faith ever strengthen thee 
through life, guide thee and support thee ! We may 
meet no more on earth. The stranger priest from the 
far-off wilds of America, and the old soldier of Na¬ 
poleon, at his chieftain’s tomb ! Yet one faith unites 
us—one church is our mother—one God is our father! 
And there on the tranquil shores of heaven, the 
foundling of the Beresina, the noble soldier who res¬ 
cued him, and the stranger priest who hung in rap¬ 
tures on his words, shall yet meet! The boy Benoit 
was thy care, the priest Benoit was still thy child— 


238 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


and I know that his sainted spirit smiles upon thee, 
and thy eyes shall be gladdened, and thy soul rejoice 
to see in glory the orphan boy you loved ! 

But let us continue our walks about the chapel of 
the Dome. Opposite the Emperor’s tomb is that of 
Turenne, one of the ablest generals of the reign of 
Louis XIY. He was at first a Calvinist, but under 
the guidance of the celebrated Bossuet, of Meaux, he 
embraced the Catholic religion. He was killed by a 
cannon ball on the 27th July, 1675, in his 64th year, 
while selecting a site for a battery near Gallybach, in 
Germany. His tomb was at first among those of the 
kings of France at St. Denis, by order of Louis 
XIY., by whom he was greatly loved : but when St. 
Denis was desecrated by the revolutionists in 1793, it 
was removed here. Immortality, in form of a female, 
supports the expiring hero, and extends a laurel 
wreath over his head. At his feet is the eagle of 
France ; behind these figures is a lofty marble obelisk. 
On the front of the tomb is a bas-relief in bronze, ap¬ 
parently representing a battle scene; also the name 
Turkein ! the last victory of Turenne. To the right 
is the chapel of St. Gregory, where are many bas-re¬ 
liefs, frescoes and statues, commemorating the princi¬ 
pal events in the lives of the saints. The altar is of 
black Iserian marble, the steps of white Carara 
marble. A group of angels in bronze terminates 
each extremity of the beautiful railing around this 
sanctuary. A baldachino or canopy is supported by 
marble columns with gilded bronze bases and capitals: 
these four columns are of black marble, styled, “ vert 
antique,” are spiral or twisted, each of one solid block 


BERTRAND AND DUROC. 


239 


24 feet .high by one foot in diameter. The baldachino 
is richly gilded—its vault or ceiling adorned with 
paintings emblematic of charity, of the adorable 
Trinity, and of the assumption of the B. V. Mary. 
Leaving this enchanting spot we next meet close by 
the entrance to the crypt or subterranean vaults for 
the future and permanent resting place of Napoleon 
L the tombs of Bertrand and Duroc! Two names 
sacred to France and worthily associated with her 
history. Bertrand ! the faithful friend and companion 
of Napoleon!—from 1798 to Waterloo his follower 
—in Egypt, congratulated by the Emperor for his 
valor on the fields of Austerlitz; the conqueror of 
the fortress of Spaudan in Prussia, in 1807; the 
skilful engineer at the Danube, and the illustrious 
hero at Wagram; sharing in the exile of the Empe¬ 
ror at Elba, and in his escape—acting as his first 
minister during the brief reign which followed, and 
on the abdication of his imperial master, following him 
voluntarily to the “ lone barren rock ” of St. Helena, 
which he left only when death had freed the captive 
from his inhuman jailers! He accompanied the 
Prince de Joinville in 1840, when the government of 
Louis Philippe transferred the Emperor’s remains to 
France. After this he travelled through the United 
States, receiving every where the respect due his 
rank and fidelity. He died in 1844; and here, close 
by the side of him he loved so sincerely in life, he 
reposes in death. On the left is the tomb of Duroc ! 
Another favorite of Napoleon—with him at the siege 
of Toulon, the campaign of Egypt and of Italy, and 
honored by him with important missions to the courts 


240 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


of Berlin, Stockholm, Vienna and St. Petersburg, in 
all of which he proved himself an accomplished diplo¬ 
mat. He was no less skilful in the field of battle, 
as the victories of Wagram, Austerlitz and Essling, 
testify. He fell at Wurtschen, 22d May, 1813, mor¬ 
tally wounded, after following the lead of Hapoleon 
from 1797. Thus these two illustrious names are still 
honored by being so closely allied with that under 
which they fought and bled ! 

Before we attempt a description of the Crypt, let us 
pay a brief visit to the chapel of St. Anthony. Over 
the arch which leads to it is a bas-relief, representing 
St. Louis seated on his throne, and sending mission¬ 
aries abroad. Just above the door on entering the 
chapel, there is a bold and striking representation of 
St. Louis prostrate before the altar at the moment of 
the elevation of the sacred host. It is a sweet paint¬ 
ing, and edifying. There are also numerous bas-re¬ 
liefs, frescoes, medallions and statues; all represent¬ 
ing some event in the lives of St. Ambrose and St. 
Louis. The domes or cupolas of these chapels are 
beautifully frescoed. 

The next interesting object we meet is the tomb of 
Vauban, whose family name was Prestre;—the cele¬ 
brated military engineer, and a skilful officer. To 
him France is indebted for much of her improve¬ 
ment in the science of fortification and military 
strategy. He was in 140 military engagements ; con¬ 
ducted 53 sieges; reconstructed 300 old fortifications, 
and built 58 new ones ! He died in 1707. There is 
an anecdote relative to Vauban, which I heard from 
an old soldier—one of the many ever lingering around 


VAUBAN. 


241 


and within these walls. Yanban was constructing 
the fortress of Huninge} on the Rhine, East of Paris ; 
it was within sight of Basle, in Switzerland. So in¬ 
significant appeared the fort to the proud Swiss, that 
they tauntingly called it a “ nid de Chien,” a mere 
dog’s nest. With that cool decision which character¬ 
ized Yauban, he assured his boasting critics that he 
would put spectacles, or lunettes, on their noses to 
enable them to see it more distinctly. In fact, as a 
part of his plan, he extended the outworks, walls and 
dykes so close to the city of Basle, that red hot shot 
was subsequently poured into the city with fearful 
effect. It is a singular fact that such fortifications 
are since called in military engineering “ Lunettes.” 

The chapel of St. Augustine comes next, after pass¬ 
ing numerous medallions, bas-reliefs of angels, St. 
Louis seated at the foot of a tree, dispensing justice 
to his subjects in the woods of Yincennes, the same 
receiving extreme unction, &c. Within this chapel 
are seven celebrated paintings by Boulogne. They 
represent the principal habits in the life of St. Augus¬ 
tine, and are exquisite. Let us now with respectful 
curiosity approach the crypt, where soon, in all his 
glory, Napoleon will lie ! 

In the centre of the marble floor is an opening 150 
feet in circumference, surrounded by a splendid balus¬ 
trade of white marble about three feet high. It is 
richly carved. In the centre of the crypt stands the 
sarcophagus destined to receive the coffin of the Em¬ 
peror. It is 12 feet long, 13 feet 6 inches high, and 
6 feet broad. It is of a species of red quartz taken 
from the quarries of Lake Ohega, in Finland; its hard- 
11 


242 


MY TEIP TO FEANCE. 


ness is sucli that it required the force of a powerful 
steam engine in constant operation for tw T o years to 
hollow out this block of stone ! It is said the cover 
alone weighs three tons ! The floor is mosaic work 
representing a crown of laurels; and the sarcophagus 
reposes on a base of “ verde antique.” On the floor 
we read 

Bivoli, Pyeamids, Maeengo, Austeelitz, Jena, 
Feiedland, Wage am, Moskowa! 

Immediately over the crypt rises the majestic dome 
of which we have already spoken. The four evange¬ 
lists are represented on the four pendantives of the 
arches. Around these and high above the visitor, is 
an entablature beautifully ornamented, having twelve 
medallions, each one representing one of the kings of 
France. I cannot leave this charming spot without 
referring to the painting on the cupola. It is a mag¬ 
nificent production, by Delafosse, and gained for him 
the proud appellation of the “ French Veronese ” ! 
There are thirty-eight figures in the group, in the 
midst of which are seen St. Louis in his royal robes, 
offering his sword to our Saviour. The effect is per¬ 
fectly enchanting, and the whole idea is worthy the 
place, the association, and its author! Visitors are 
not permitted without special permission to descend 
into the crypt; but from what was pointed out to me, 
it was easy to see the two doors which led into the 
vault where are deposited the victims of Fiesclii, 
who, it will be remembered, by means of his “ infer¬ 
nal machine” intended to assassinate Louis Philippe, 
in the month of July, 1835, in the streets of Paris. 


NAPOLEON S TOMB. 


243 


The king was reviewing the 8th legion of the national 
guard, accompanied by a numerous staff of officers 
and three of his sons, when an irregular discharge of 
fire-arms was heard from a house in the neighborhood; 
eleven persons were killed. Fieschi, and his con¬ 
federates were wounded by the “ infernal machine.” 
They were traced by their blood, secured, and execu¬ 
ted shortly after. Between these doors are three 
lovely mosaics of Charlemagne, the imperial eagle 
and the star of the legion of honor. Twelve massive 
pillars of white marble support the ceiling of the 
crypt. On these are sculptured twelve principal bat¬ 
tles of Napoleon; and on the walls are twelve im¬ 
mense bas-reliefs, allegorical of the entire political 
and social policy of Napoleon’s government. Twelve 
splendid bronze lamps hang around the interior of 
the crypt. 

And here will soon repose all that is left of the 
Emperor’s ashes. Here amid companions in arms— 
beneath the shadow of the altar, and in the noblest 
mousoleum ever erected for mortal man, (save the 
simple rustic tomb on the banks of the Potomac for 
a greater than Napoleon,) will the proud eagle of 
France soon droop her wings; and shattered banners, 
and tearful eyes, and kneeling old soldiers tell the 
stranger, ’ tis Napoleon’s tomb ! The wild billows of 
the ocean will no longer sing his requiem; but what he 
loved more dearly, the martial drum and the trum¬ 
pet’s blast, will sound above his tomb. The winds of 
heaven will no more sigh above his grave as when 
they seemed to mourn for the fallen hero in his rest¬ 
ing place on St. Helena; but the soft music of the 


244 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


organ, its plaintive notes and thrilling sounds, will 
echo back the “ De Profundis,” and prayer of faith 
as, from yonder altar, shall go up to Heaven the 
plaintive cry for rest eternal to be given him, and 
light perpetual to shine upon his soul! Rest thee, 
proud soaring spirit! Thy fitful dreams are over. 
’ Tis well tliy last home is sheltered by religion, for 
the cries of millions, their curses on thee, and the 
avenging smoke of human hecatombs may not reach 
thee here ! The altar will shield thee—and He who 
said, “ My eyes shall be open and my ears attentive 
to the prayer of him that prayeth in this place,” will 
listen to the pilgrim as he whispers a petition in thy 
behalf! 

With contending emotions I turned from the tomb 
of Hapoleon. Repeatedly did I visit it during my 
stay in Paris, and always with mingled feelings of 
sadness for his ambition, indignation for his fate, and 
admiration for the country which has thus honored 
her great man.—How like a flaming meteor his career. 
From the siege of Toulon to Waterloo!—From the 
bridge of Oreole to the throne of empire !—From 
his simple dwelling on the Rue Chauterecine, on his 
return from Egypt, to the palace of the Tuileries, 
Versailles and St. Cloud!—From Mt. Tliabor and the 
Pyramids of Eygpt, to the Kremlin of Moscow! 
From the military school of Paris in ’96 to Fontaine¬ 
bleau in 1813, tyrannizing over his illustrious captive, 
Pius VII.!—From the crown of Italy in 1805, and 
the imperial diadem of France in 1804, to St. Helena 
in 1815 !—From the oriental splendor of his residence 
in Dresden, where kings did him reverence, and 


NAPOLEON. 


245 


Queens were maids of honor to the Empress Maria 
Louisa, in 1812, to the narrow room of his cottage 
prison, Longwood, where even his old servant, 
Shutinn, was forbidden to wait on him!—From 
Brinne to the Dome of the Invalides ! 

In a far different sense and yet in earnestness, 
might it have been asked of him, as, on the 15th of 
August, 1769, the modern Ajax was born, under a 
canopy on the curtains of which the wars of Homer’s 
Iliad were depicted, “ What manner of man will this 
child be ? ”—If at the Pyramids, Kleber, equal in 
talent, though early a victim to the assassin’s steel, 
thus addressed the young officer: “General, the 
world is the page of your fame”!. May we not say 
that the dome of Mansard proclains his glory even in 
death ! What a mystery to man was Napoleon! A 
perfect master of human character—never off his 
guard—ubiquitous on the field—now lost to sight 
amid the smoke of cannon—only to be seen as the 
smoke passed away, guiding, and issuing orders in a 
different quarter—amid the din of war ever study¬ 
ing to promote the welfare of the home government, 
science, literature, and all that adorns a nation—re¬ 
sistless and impulsive in council, in the tented field, 
or the halls of his palaces—heartless and stern even 
to cruelty sometimes, and yet weeping over the suf¬ 
ferings of his noble soldiers—a perfect master of 
dissimulation,—such was Napoleon ! Hated and idol¬ 
ized —feared and loved what a subject for study is 
his history, and where could a man feel more the 
deep interest of that study than before his grave and 
in presence of his ashes! His history is that *of 


246 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


France from almost liis first appearance on the stage 
of action, at Tonlon; and may I not say that even the 
French revolution, chastisement as it was from 
above, would have been incomplete had there not 
been a Napoleon? Great and powerful as he was— 
sole dispenser of civil and military authority—abso¬ 
lute over two hundred millions of dollars of annual 
income, never could he have succeeded in imposing 
his despotism on France, had not the infidel philoso¬ 
phy of preceding reigns subverted the influence of 
religion. The promoters of infidelity and atheism 
saw in the downfall of Christianity their own aggran¬ 
dizement ; but they looked not beyond that—they 
sought to open the floodgates of atheism without stop¬ 
ping to reflect how the angry waters might be stayed. 
The floodgates were opened, and these enthusiasts 
were swept away—while religion, divine and holy, 
yet remains ! It cannot be denied that all the tem¬ 
poral evils of France, if not of Europe, have been 
caused by the irreligious movements of the French 
revolution. The almost universal corruption of courts, 
of aristocracy, of armies, of people,—that unrestrain¬ 
ed, onward rushing of selfishness and ambition. The 
total disregard of authority and absence of obedi¬ 
ence ;—what else could follow but anarchy and ruin ? 
How can there exist a constitution without gradation 
in society ? Even in our own noble form of govern¬ 
ment, what is authority but implied obedience, and 
who are to obey but the governed ? The enthusiasts 
of the 18th century, in France, profess to seek equal¬ 
ity! Yerily, their actions proved it! What sacri¬ 
leges did they comipit under the sanction of their 


THE REVOLUTION. 


247 


abortive constitution ! What tyranny and horrors 
under the holy name of liberty ! They destroyed the 
ancient landmarks of civilization—a well-regulated 
distinction in society. Say what you will, “ some are, 
and must be greater than the rest.” The French revo¬ 
lutionists, not France, destroyed a civil, only to intro¬ 
duce a military despotism. Far be it from me to jus¬ 
tify the crying injustice done the “ Tiers Etat.” Ad¬ 
mit they had grievances—taxation without represen¬ 
tation—admit they were oppressed even beyond what 
I can see,—were not the expressive words of Napo¬ 
leon too fully verified: “ In the end you must come 
bach to the?government of boots and spurs” Abuses 
were to be remedied—but were the principles of 
eternal truth to be violated ? Corruption and injus¬ 
tice existed; but was the destruction of right a remedy 
for wrong? 

As justification for the Eevolution, we are accus¬ 
tomed to read and hear the beggared state of the ex¬ 
chequer—millions of money abstracted from the treas¬ 
ury —the half century of wars under Louis XIV^.—- 
the extravagance, even libertinism of Louis XY.—the 
taxation of the unprivileged people to supply the ever 
increasing deficiency. Grant the premises. Were 
the consequences logical? Should the personal or 
official misdeeds of his predecessors be visited on as 
mild a sovereign as ever guided the destinies of France, 
after Louis IX.—-on a sovereign who never armed his 
soldiers to defend his rights, much less destroy his 
subjects? Were the vices of weak kings to be re¬ 
deemed by Atheism, Infidelity, and the blood of clergy, 
nobility, poverty, all ranks, all ages, all sexes ? The 


248 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


good book informs ns, “ The fool hath said in his heart, 
there is no God! ” How hath God laughed them to 
scorn ! A struggle of ten years ended in what ? In 
the downfall of the hereditary monarchy, and the 
triumphs of a military despotism. The abuses of the 
former were to be corrected—an ocean of blood 
drowned the latter! The boisterous few, nay, even 
the triumvirate, Robespierre, Marat, and Danton, 
with not more than three hundred hired assassins, held 
all France at bay ! And what treasures of men and 
money did it require to stay the evils they originated! 
The property of the church, even the patrimony of 
the poor, the widow, the orphan, and the student was 
confiscated, and to whom did it fall? To hungry 
wolves, who afforded in return such protection to these 
classes as the vulture to the lamb ! And when the 
trio had fallen, and military despotism supplanted the 
Reign of Terror, was the condition of France better 
than it would have been had the people listened to 
the proposals of Louis XYI. in 1798, on the 23d June ? 
Let every honest man, the least acquainted with the 
subject, say, whether if the colonies of America had en¬ 
joyed one-half the immunities proffered to the French 
nation by the constitution, a single blow would have 
been struck against old step-mother England ? Ours 
w T as a different race of people. With us the wild demon 
of discord was rampant enough ; but as a nation we 
clung to the cheering hope that right, not might , made 
us strong, and we conquered. But the case was widely 
different with the French revolutionists. They retro¬ 
graded. Paris is now France ; and as well may you 
seek to chain the lightnings of heaven as to retrace, 


napoleon’s dream. 


249 


save by years or centuries of patience, the downward 
step she has taken. One dynasty after another has 
passed away. The throne and the cottage, the rich 
and poor have been sprinkled with blood. Nations 
have been shocked at deeds of darkness. The Church 
of God has been persecuted as the hunted hare, and 
like the wearied dove of the deluge she has sought 
refuge from the storm, and the bright day has again 
shone ! Oh, may its brightness be perpetual, and in 
the piety of the future may the wickedness of the past 
be forgiven—forgotten ! 

Thus moralizing, and divided between almost com¬ 
plete prostration from fatigue and fasting, I reached my 
hotel. In the enthusiasm of the moment I related to 
the kind hostess what I had seen. “ Ah, yes ! ” ex¬ 
claimed the good old dame; “ Yive Napoleon! How 
well did he realize the dream that troubled him, just 
before he set out to conquer Wellington ! ” And pray 
what was that dream ? I inquired. “ Ah, mon clier 
Abbe ! ” she replied, “ you must know it. What an im¬ 
pression it made on all France. My old uncle, who 
was wounded at Austerlitz, and who is still at the ‘ In¬ 
valids,’ often speaks of it.” But, madam, the dream— 
the dream, said I, half indignant at her admiration 
of Napoleon, forgetting mine was but little less. “Ah, 
yes! the dream. Well, the Emperor started from his 
couch, and called for his aide de camp. ‘ Sire,’ said 
the officer, 4 your orders ? ’ 4 Lallemand,’ said the Empe¬ 
ror, 4 such a dream as I have had ! ’ The noble soldier 
smiled at the idea of Napoleon being troubled by a 
dream; but seeing the disturbed appearance of his 
Emperor, he feared to indulge in any pleasantry. 

11 * 


250 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


6 Lallemand,’ continued Napoleon , 6 there is something 
in that dream. It was different from that which I had 
when the younger Robespierre had almost inclined me 
to return from Italy with him; it was different from the 
troubled fancies which have bothered my brain on 
many a field of battle; for these urged me on, and I 
saw my star of destiny always glorious; but to-night I 
have “ dreamed a dream which is not all a dream.” 
My star was not there. I was alone, and three large 
decanters stood before me, held by invisible hands. 
One was empty; one filled with something red, 
and one with water—tell me, Lallemand, what does 
it mean ? 5 The officer expressed his inability to ex¬ 
pound the dream. An old woman, who had lost four 
sons in the campaign of Russia, hearing the affair, 
begged admission to his presence. She is admitted, 
trembling with age and feebleness; she shakes her 
bony finger at Napoleon, and addressed him: ‘/Sire, 
the dream will come true. The bottle with red denotes 
the blood you have shed; the bottle with water the 
tears you have made the wives, and sisters, and moth¬ 
ers of France to weep ; and the empty bottle denotes 
you were nothing, and you soon shall come to nothing P 
Napoleon quailed under her searching glance as she 
turned and left him. He never forgot it, and. we all 
know how soon the prophecy was fulfilled.” Excited 
as I was, this trait was little calculated to soothe *ny 
feelings. It was told w r ith sincerity, and whether real 
or imaginary, it conveys a moral. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


Garden of the Tuileries—Trait of Father Mathews—Palace of Tuilenes— 
Palace of Louvre—Place de Louvre—Place de la Carrousel—Triumphant 
Arch in Place de la Carrousel—Two Emperors at Tilsit—Napoleon Re¬ 
fuses to assume Headship of the Church—Wings of Louvre—Galleries 
of Louvre—Ground Floor of Louvre—Hall of Apollo—Salon Carr6— 
Paintings and Students in Salon Carre—Artistic Wealth of Louvre— 
Trait of Angelo—Reflections on leaving Louvre—Sound Philosophy. 

A UR next visit shall be to the palace of the Tuiler- 
^ ies, the Louvre, the Place de la Carrousel, and the 
ancient church of St. Germain de L’Auxerrois. It is 
impossible to convey an adequate idea of these inter¬ 
esting places in the few pages I can devote to them ; 
but even a hurried visit will serve to recall what many 
have long since read of them, mayhap to convey in¬ 
struction to some who may yet visit them. 

It is said that the best moment for visiting the en¬ 
chanting grounds around the Tuileries, is sunset. 
This is, doubtless, in part, true; but it cannot surpass an 
early walk while the world of Paris is still silent. The 
bright rays of a morning sun gilding each surrounding 
object; a cool, bracing atmosphere, and then you are 


252 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


free to contemplate the scene. At all events, it was 
under such circumstances that I found myself in pres¬ 
ence of the Tuileries, on a bracing morning in No¬ 
vember, 1855. Who that has never stood there can 
form an idea of those shady groves, flower-beds, ex¬ 
tensive avenues, and forests of orange trees ? To me 
it was perfectly enchanting, and though sometimes 
heavy-hearted, nay, even gloomy, there was a some¬ 
thing in the spot to “ drive dull care away,” and touch 
a happy chord in the heart, no matter how unstrung. 
Before us rises the imposing front of the Tuileries? 
1070 feet long, four towering stories high, its five pa¬ 
vilions or high towers, the centre one of which is sur¬ 
mounted by the tri-color flag of the Empire ; on every 
side statues of classic and historic heroes, Laocoon and 
Diana in bronze, a bronze copy of the Sicilian knife- 
grinder, the youthful JEneas who “ upon his shoulders 
did the old Ancliises bear mimic lakes, on whose 
waters graceful swans move hither and thither as pass¬ 
ers by throw them a cake, an apple, or a piece of 
bread; wide-spreading trees, beneath which, in the 
heat of day and at evening, crowds of visiters, groups 
of happy children, and bands of musicians assemble. 
The famous red granite obelisk of Luxor, and splendid 
fountains adorning the Place de la Carrousel; the 
Elysian fields; the avenue of Neuilly ; and the “ Arc 
de Triomphe de PEtoile,” in the distance ; the prince¬ 
ly hotels and stores on Rue de Rivoli, on the north, 
and the Seine on the south—truly it is grand ! As 
an American, fond of my own proud country, and de¬ 
voted heart and soul to her institutions, I frequently 
felt a kind of jealousy when I rambled through these 


THE TUILERIES. 


253 


walks; fancy would wing her flight across a world of 
waters, and call to mind the happy moments passed 
in other days, beneath the shade of wide, o’erspread- 
ing branches, in view of Columbia’s proud Capitol, in 
Washington; while the venerable and the loved, the 
sclfblar and the Christian, good old Father Mathews 
would recount the horrors of the French Revolution. 
Oh, how I wished for the picture without the frame ! 
that these gardens were ours without their bloody 
history ! No wonder the Parisians are proud of their 
public walks ! Here in the heart of Paris with its 
million of inhabitants, is the garden of the Tuileries, 
embracing sixty-seven acres, and as lovely a spot, as¬ 
suredly associated with more thrilling events in the 
past, as Europe ‘or the world can produce. When 
Louis XIY. came to the throne this beautiful garden 
was a half wild, uncultivated park, separated from the 
palace by a street. It is mostly surrounded by iron 
railings, whose ornamented tops are strangely enough 
gilded. The grounds are divided into terraces, flower¬ 
beds, squares, inclined planes, shady groves and ave¬ 
nues. There are also numerous allegorical statues and 
figures of France, of the seasons, rivers, &c., of the 
Empire ; and on each side of the gateway, or splendid 
.entrance to the Place de la Concorde, on the west, is a 
marble group representing Victory, Mercury, and 
Fame. Immediately in front of the palace, on the west, 
is the private garden of the imperial household. It is 
separated from the public by a graceful iron railing; 
and here at almost every hour of the day, sunshine or 
rain, may be seen gatherings of idlers and strangers to 
catch a glimpse of the inmates. It was the intention 


254 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


of Louis Philippe, (to whom Paris owes much for his 
noble improvements,) to enlarge the palace ; but the 
sovereign people had become so completely republi- 
canized in their notions, that they considered the pal¬ 
ace formerly occupied by Louis XIY. and the Empe¬ 
ror Hapoleon I. sufficiently grand for their toy,1;he 
“ citizen king ! ” So they thought him. He, howev¬ 
er, braved their disapprobation, and if he did not 
carry out his plans, he taught the Parisians that he 
had a will of his own, by converting the space allotted 
into the present private garden. The ground now 
occupied by the palace was formerly a brick or tile 
yard, called in French tuiles or tuilerie. It w T as com¬ 
menced under Henry II., in 1564, by his queen, 
Catharine de Medicis. In 1600, Henry IY. not only 
continued this palace, but commenced the long gal¬ 
lery or museum connecting this to the palace of the 
Louvre ; but it was during the long reign of Louis XIY. 
that the present imposing edifice was completed. 
Since then it has undergone but few alterations. 
Standing in front of it, on the west, the view is grand. 
The square dome, high above the rest of the edifice ; 
the pavilions or towers, which, at regular intervals, 
relieve the fagade; the rich cornices; the old-fash- 
io'ned appearance of the building, which is nearly six 
hundred feet long; the tri-color flag ever floating from 
the summit of the “ Tour d’Horloge,” when the Em¬ 
peror is in Paris ; antique, pyramidal-shaped roofs, or¬ 
namented windows, columns, and pilasters ; all these 
render the palace of the Tuileries not only imposing, 
but peculiar; not alone from the historic associations 
which cluster so thick around it; but for something I 


THE LOUVRE. 


255 


feel, but cannot express. To me it conveyed an idea 
of incongruity—a heap of splendor thrown together 
without any order; and now that I have seen both, 
it reminds me forcibly, though vastly inferior in 
extent, of the Vatican at Home. Each was built 
piecemeal by different sovereigns, who were as op¬ 
posite in their tastes as they were unlike in circum¬ 
stances. The result is a medley—a splendid pile— 
grand, imposing, it is true ; yet confused and irregular. 
Such, at least, are my views. The imperial family 
occupies the southern wing of the palace, and as eti¬ 
quette forbids any entrance to the building when the 
emperor is in Paris, without special introduction, I 
was deprived of the opportunity to visit the interior. 
The late Duchess of Orleans and her suite occupied 
the northern tower, on the Rivoli. As far as known 
Louis XIII. was the first to reside there. His suc¬ 
cessor, Louis XIV., inhabited it occasionally. Louis 
XVI. did not occupy it. Napoleon I. resided there, 
and under Louis XVIII. it became the permanent res¬ 
idence of the sovereign. Louis Philippe was expelled 
from this palace in 1848, after which it was converted 
into a hospital for the wounded in the insurrection of 
June in the same year. Since Napoleon III. grasped 
the reins of Empire, it is again the abode of royalty. 

The palace of the Louvre is more accessible. This 
stands east of the Tuileries, to which it is now con¬ 
nected by lateral buildings on the north and south. 
It is a sombre and magnificent pile, ancient and im¬ 
posing. Its name Louvre is derived from the word 
“ Loup,” a wolf, or more probably, “ Louveterie,” a 
lodge for wolf-hunting. Formerly it was the hunting 


256 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


ground of tlie pious King Dagobert, who, after a brief 
reign of six years, and embellishing France with nu¬ 
merous churches and public institutions, was assassi¬ 
nated on the 23d December, 679, at Steney, on the 
river Meuse. At that time it was but a rude building. 
Under Philip Augustus, about the year 1200, it was re¬ 
modelled, surrounded by walls and fortifications to 
serve as a State prison. In 1528 it was demolished to 
make room for a more magnificent structure under 
Francis I., and from that day to the reign of Kapoleon 
I.,Additions and improvements have been almost per¬ 
petually going on. The most celebrated artists of 
Europe,—the Abbott Lescot of Cluny, an humble 
monk and distinguished architect; Le Meruir, Claude, 
Ferrault, and Beruinni, the famous Italian architect, 
painter and sculptor of Borne, were at different times 
engaged on the edifice. It is said that nothing in 
ancient or modern architecture excels the colonnade 
of the Louvre. To me it was and is inexpressibly 
grand. It is, in its way, what the semicircular colon¬ 
nade of St. Peter’s, at'Bome, is—unique, unapproach¬ 
able ! On the west side it consists of twenty-eight 
double Corinthian columns. These are surmounted 
by a tympanum, whose rich mouldings are formed of 
two single pieces of stone or marble, thirty-four feet 
long each and one foot thick. The whole fagade of 
the Louvre is exquisite in all its parts, infpressing the 
mind much more favorably than does its neighbor the 
Tuileries. Entering the court of the Louvre we find 
a perfect square, surrounded by wings, or long rows 
of buildings, which, by their mixed style, produce a 
pleasing effect. Such harmony and grace of design 


PLACE. 


257 


cannot fail to please the eye and give an exalted idea 
of the style of architecture of the reign of Louis XIY. 
In the centre of this square stands a monument, hut 
of whom or what I was unable to learn, as it was then 
surrounded by a high temporary fence. I was told 
that during the revolution of 1848, the Parisians re¬ 
moved the statue of the late Duke of Orleans, which 
then stood there. 

Passing now through the arch in the centre of the 
main tower, we enter the “Place de la Carrousel.” 

A brief description of this “ place ” must suffice. 
It includes the immense open space or oblong square 
between the Louvre on the east, and the Tuileries 
on the west, and the new wings connecting both 
palaces on the north and ‘south. A portion is sepa¬ 
rated by an elegant iron railing, and is called the 
“ Court of the Tuileries.” At the entrance of this 
Court stands a grand triumphal arch forty-seven feet 
high, erected in 1806, by Napoleon I., at an expense 
of upwards of 56,000 francs. Above the entablature, 
supported by eight Corinthian marble columns, are as 
many statues representing a soldier of different com¬ 
panies of the Empire, in full uniform. These marble 
statues are very good, and impart a military ardor by 
their lifelike attitudes. The pillars are of a species 
of red Languedoc marble, having bronze bases and 
capitals. On each of the four sides of the arch is a 
-very interesting bas-relief, studies in themselves; and 
I lingered to impress them on my memory. How 
naturally the uncertainty of all political friendships 
forced itself upon me wdiile gazing at that represent¬ 
ing the two Emperors at Tilsit, in 1807 ! How cozily 


258 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


Alexander and Napoleon divided tlie world between 
themselves, the former taking as his share the East, 
Napoleon the West! How secure each seemed, in 
the pride and folly of his heart, how like a God each 
seemed to rule his little world! Who, looking only 
at the surface of matters, would have dreamed that 
these two powerful chieftains would so soon be declared 
enemies, arrayed against each other, and leading their 
myriad hosts in bloody strife to lay waste each other’s 
portion ! Yet so it was. Such is the chain of sand 
which binds friendship based as theirs was, on am¬ 
bition, selfishness, and pride. And yet I could but 
admire Napoleon for one trait, in which he showed 
not only his common sense, but his firm faith, supe¬ 
rior to all the trappings of power. It was the fact of 
his proudly spurning the sacrilegious advice of the 
Emperor Alexander, and the King of Prussia, to as¬ 
sume the headship or supremacy of religion in France, 
as they had done in their kingdoms! Haughty as he 
was, and unscrupulous in whatever he deemed obnox¬ 
ious to his aggrandizement, he had too just an estimate 
of the truth of religion to assume, as England, Eussia and 
Prussia had, the divine office of the Pope. He would 
insult, imprison, and tyrannize over the common Father 
of the faithful, but, amid all, he admitted his spiritual 
supremacy. He scoffed at the old Pope’s excommuni¬ 
cation, it is true ; and defied his spiritual arms through 
pride and passion ; but he says himself, on his death¬ 
bed, he never did this without self-reproach. Napoleon 
was a bad Catholic, but he was too true a Catholic to 
grasp at what he knew, as well as his advisers knew, 
was impossible for him, like them, a layman! The 


THE PALACES. 


259 


sword was his crosier—the crown of earthly empire, 
his tiara—and he sought not to have engraven on his 
escutcheon the keys of spiritual supremacy. Sur¬ 
mounting the arch is a triumphal chariot drawn by 
four horses, in bronze, modelled after a similar one in 
Venice, on the piazza of St. Mark. At each corner 
of the gateways at the sides of the arch, is a colossal 
statue—Victory, Peace, History, and Prance. This 
place derives its name from a tournament given here 
in 1622, by Louis XIV., in honor of Queen Anne of 
Austria. 

The immense wings by which, on the north and 
south, the palaces of the Louvre and Tuileries are 
united, were nearly finished when I was in Paris. All 
tongues were eloquent in the praises of Napoleon IH., 
who opens liberally the purse-strings of government, 
to supply work for the millions throughout France. 
Even for this work alone, scarce had he vaulted into 
his imperial saddle, from the almost absurd title of 
“ Prince President ” of the Republic, when more than 
five millions of francs were allotted by a decree 
of the Empire! Well, and faithfully, and in true 
imperial style, has the work been thus far accom¬ 
plished. No talent was neglected. One hundred and 
fifty-five artists in statuary and sculpture alone have 
been employed ; while for the interior of these build¬ 
ings and wings, artists of every kind have been en¬ 
gaged. Another admirable stroke of the present Em¬ 
peror’s policy was to divide the vast extent of space 
and room in these palaces and wings, among not only, 
like his predecessors, the museums, galleries of arts, 
&c., but among the principal officers of State and dig- 


260 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


nitaries of the Empire: as, the Minister of State, 
the “ Cent Gardes,” or body of “ Hundred Guards,” 
the Commander-in-Chief, Ministry of the Interior, 
Imperial Library, the Session Hall for the Senators 
and Legislative bodies, at which, or at any presenta¬ 
tion of State, the Emperor can be present as privately 
or as publicly as he may wish. 

Let us now retrace our steps to the galleries of the 
Louvre. 

The two wings or galleries connecting the Louvre 
with the Tuileries, have been completed by the pres¬ 
ent Emperor. Seven kings had contributed to the 
Louvre. Hapoleon I. completed the edifice in 180L, 
but the crowning glory of connecting the two palaces 
belongs to Hapoleon III. We will now ascend the 
broad stairway situated at the S. E. corner of the 
Place du Carrousel, and pay a visit to the halls, saloons, 
museums, &c., of this interesting place. There were 
few spots in Paris I enjoyed as much as the galleries 
of the Louvre, for I had heard from early childhood 
of their mines of artistic wealth. I had listened in 
later years to a very dear friend, as distinguished by 
his pencil as he was amiable for every quality that 
adorns the gentleman, the enthusiastic admirer of 
nature, and the friend of humanity, the late Pichard 
M. Gibson, of Washington, D. C., as he dwelt on the 
Louvre. I have heard the amiable Healy, doubtless 
among the first of living portrait painters, the artist, 
the scholar, the friend who did not refuse to enter the 
arena with a worthy rival, and who has been honored 
no less by the imperial than by the government of 
Louis Philippe. The successful artist of history. 


THE GALLERY OF THE LOUVRE. 


261 


handing down the scene of Webster, replying to 
Hayne, where the inanimate canvas grows instinct 
with life, and yon may almost hear the words, catch 
the glance of that indignant eye, and feel the enthu¬ 
siasm of entranced listeners, as they hung upon the 
words of the immortal Webster. I had often heard 
him speak of the paintings in the Louvre, of the days, 
and months, and years he had passed among them, 
and I longed to see them! 

As the visitor enters the grand front door he sees, 
in a niche above him, a colossal head of Napoleon I., 
encircled with a laurel wreath. On what may be 
called the ground floor, are several extensive halls or 
galleries, extending three sides of the square, for 
statuary; which contain an immense number of 
specimens, both ancient and modern ; some of them, 
even to an unskilled eye, most exquisite. He now as¬ 
cends to the “ round hall,” which leads to the “ hall 
of Apollo; ” a gorgeous saloon decorated with all 
that art and taste can suggest. This hall is 184 feet 
long, and 28 broad ; the ceiling is frescoed beautifully. 
At the extremity, is the entrance to the “ Salon 
Carre ” and to the “ long gallery.” The walls of these 
saloons are covered with gems of art, from the studios 
and pencils of the great masters, ancient and modern ; 
Italian, Spanish, Flemish, and French. Here, at all 
times, may be found the lovers of painting—studying, 
copying, and wrapped in perfect admiration as they 
gaze on the almost breathing canvas before them. 
Hither come the lovers of art from all quarters of 
the globe, to catch the spark of inspiration, which 
talent and time and industry can alone perfect. The 


262 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


eye of the student will flash, and his cheek pale and 
crimson with the workings of liis excited soul, when 
standing at his easel, unmindful of the crowd around 
him, he gazes at the “ Yirgin of Murillo,” marked in 
the catalogue, if I rightly remember, 546. Then see 
how his hand instinctively grasps his pencil—how it 
rises to his easel, while his eyes are yet riveted on the 
tableau before him—and then with the instinct of 
genius, traces in almost nervous haste, the idea im¬ 
pressed on his mind, ere it pass for ever away ! See 
how the picture grows beneath his brush. How 
totally unmindful of the world around and without— 
he sees hut one object—dreams, and thinks, and hears 
hut one idea—’tis of Murillo’s masterpiece! Here 
before a “Leonardi di Vinci,” or a “Paul Vero¬ 
nese,” is the easel of a young lady apparently not 
more than sixteen years of age. She is copying the 
“Virgin Mother,” from the marriage feast of Cana. 
See. how filled with the fire of enthusiasm the young 
artist plies her brush, regardless of the encomiums 
passed on her production by admiring visitors. She 
seems like one of the Delphic priestesses of old ; her 
eyes distended, her long black tresses waving over 
her shoulders ; her cheeks flushed, her whole counte¬ 
nance bespeaking the enthusiasm of her soul! Close 
by is an old man, with gray hair and cool determined 
mien, copying a “ Titian’s entombment of Christ.” If 
we enter now the “ long gallery,” what a scene of 
beauty and of art breaks upon the view! The ceil¬ 
ing and the walls covered with the richest collection of 
paintings the world can produce. Here stands a por¬ 
trait of Balthazar Castiglione by Baphael, a Magda- 


THE GALLERY OF THE LOUVRE. 263 

lene by Guido, a Holy Family by Murillo, a Tobias 
by Rembrant, an Annunciation by Carracci, a battle 
scene by Salvator Rosa. In short, a world of art, of 
wealth, and study ! And this storehouse is daily 
thrown open to an admiring crowd from the four 
quarters of the world. How great the advantage for 
students of art to be thus guided by these master 
spirits; to drink at this Helicon of the Muses, the pure 
streams of classic science ! I learned that the most 
promising pupils of the different “ ateliers,” or studios 
of Paris, are thus permitted to copy those works, and 
that many distinguished artists are employed in filling 
orders from different countries, for copies. From the 
catalogue, which is purchased at will, from an oblig¬ 
ing old man at the door, I learned that the galleries 
of the Louvre contain 15 originals by Raphael, 26 of 
Annibal Carracci, 22 of Titian, 5 of Correggio, 23 of 
Guido, and 5 of Leonardi di Vinci, besides several 
of Rubens. To these add countless others of the 
French, German, and other schools. If a man wishes 
to regret his want of talent, or abuse of opportunity 
offered in youth to cultivate the divine art of paint¬ 
ing, let him visit the Louvre—gaze upon its treasures 
—see the ardor which the worshippers at this shrine 
bring to their task—and study, as I did, the workings 
of soul—the excitement of brain—the noble triumphs 
of industry'—as from the dull surface of the canvas 
before him the artist brings out a counterpart of the 
masterpiece he admires ! How the soft tinting of an 
Italian sky, where all that is lovely in cloud, in land¬ 
scape, or nature, is caught by Lorraine, and stamped 
upon the canvas. Again, the mildness and modesty, 


264 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


the vastness and bold conceptions—the majesty of 
thought, and intensity of will, the creative energy ; 
in a word, mind of Angelo—at another, the charac¬ 
ter, if I may so speak ; the • almost faultless anatomy 
and knowledge of the “human face divine,” of 
Leonardi di Yinci. Let him, I repeat, but contem¬ 
plate the masters and their pupils—think of what has 
been done, and that he can do nothing but admire, 
and be silent—and I am convinced it will be punish¬ 
ment enough. There are numerous other galleries 
containing paintings by Mignon, Dominechino, Guido, 
Reni, and others; some of them, if I may venture 
an opinion, as deserving a place in the “ long room ” 
as those already there, but there is no space for them. 
I would remark, by the way, that the visitor may 
trust implicitly the official catalogue sold at the door. 
In Italy, whether you visit Florence, Pisa, Naples, or 
Rome, you will be supplied with a catalogue of paint¬ 
ings in the respective galleries, but it is seldom cor¬ 
rect. At the Louvre it is always correct, and when 
alterations in number or position are made, due notice 
is given. There are, also, other galleries to which I did 
not go, as my brain was too much occupied with the 
loving, breathing histories of the past pictured on the 
glowing canvas, and frescoed ceilings around and 
above me. Indeed, I know not whether, even with in¬ 
clination to visit them, I would have been admitted 
without, what I had not, influence! I learned from 
my guide book, and from a very obliging old officer, 
that the “ Museum of the Sovereigns ” contained many 
valuable relics in shape of missals in manuscript; the 
chair of King Dagobert; the crown of Charlemagne; 


ART. 


265 


the coronation robes of Napoleon I., with his field 
bed ; also, that the gallery “ de la Marine ” is inter¬ 
esting for the models of vessels there preserved ; but 
on each visit made to the Louvre, I was so complete¬ 
ly enchanted with the paintings that I dreamed of 
them by night, almost lived on them by day! O 
how in such moments the heart of man yearns for 
some genial spirit to share in its excitement! Who 
can enjoy the beautiful, the eloquent, the sublime, all 
alone ? 5 Tis said of Angelo, when for long months 

he worked alone on the cartoons and frescoes of the 
Vatican, he would sometimes catch hold of a crucifix 
he had always near him, hold it up in his wild enthu¬ 
siasm, and ask it, “ Is not that beautiful! ” Come e 
bello ! Oh ! after all, what is life if the smiles of for¬ 
tune rest on us alone ? Even though stores of wealth 
be ours, and prosperous winds waft on our bark, what 
is it, if unladen with the gold of friendship ? If you 
see an object grand, beautiful, sublime—or gaze upon 
a scene that melts the soul to pity, and bids the tell¬ 
tale tear to start from its hiding-place, how naturally 
you turn to grasp the arm of another, to catch liis 
eye, or gaze in silence on his tears, and enjoy with 
him ! How you strive to see with the eyes, to hear with 
the ears, to study with the judgment of loved ones, 
far away, mayhap slumbering in the grave ! And 
how half unrevealed, half beautiful seems the loveliest 
view if you gaze on it alone! I can readily under¬ 
stand the enthusiasm of many of these artists and stu¬ 
dents in the galleries of the Louvre. Like me, per¬ 
haps, they were pilgrims, from a far off land; and I 
must confess that when in the silence around me I 
12 


266 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


eauglit from this side or that, an English word, my 
heart warmed more quickly towards its author; and 
I studied him as well as his picture. Like me, per¬ 
haps, they were looking forward to the time when 
they would meet again “ the loved ones at home ! ” 
and the hectic flush, the eye beaming with fire, and 
the close application, told me they were laboring and 
studying not for themselves alone, but for the approv¬ 
ing smile, the gentle word, which friendly love and 
worth would impart. Let them labor on, and the 
word “ fail ” will never be stamped on their pictures. 
On leaving the Louvre, I felt more than sad—even 
desolate, and lonely—I thought of the gay scenes, 
festive days and courtly balls these floors and galleries 
had witnessed—of the gorgeous splendor, reflected by 
mirrored walls and ceilings; I thought of the past, then of 
the more glorious use which now marks the Louvre— 
of its world of study, of interest, and mental wealth 
—of those, too, far away—who would so love to stand 
where I had stood, to see, and study, and admire 
what I could only gaze on in silent wonder, and I 
felt then, more forcibly than ever, the truth and pa¬ 
thos of Moore’s words: 

“When true hearts lie withered, 

And fond ones are flown, 

Oh! who would inhabit 
This bleak world alone!” 

While enjoying dinner, I was amused at the pert- 
ness, or rather quaintness of a seedy-looking old 
specimen of the genus homo, at a table quite near 
mine, who after a dead silence of nearly a quarter of 
an hour, during which he was studying, apparently, 


A SPONGE. 


267 


how many grains of sand there were on the floor, 
suddenly exclaimed: ‘Mons., I know something that 
you don’t know—you know something that I don’t 
know—and I know something that neither of us 
knows! ” Having thus delivered himself of this 
magniloquent discovery, he “ paused for a reply.” I 
must confess that at the time I was curious to know 
his secret. As he seemed to eye me more closely 
than the others, I got him to expound the mysterious 
truths he had uttered. To me it was a rare treat. 
The old fellow, with all the gravity of a judge, said: 
“ First , I know that I want my dinner—and that's 
what you didn't know. Second , you know whether 
you'll give it to me or pay for it; that's what I don't 
know ; and thirdly , I know that neither of us knows 
how much my dinner will cost , if I once begin ! " 
There was such cool humor, not to say impudence, 
and, withal, true philosophy in the oracle, that I gave 
him “ carte blanche ” for his dinner. Truth obliges 
me to add, that he seemed anxious to do justice to 
my generosity. 


CHAPTER XX. 


Church of St. Germain L’Auxerrois—Tradition of Bell—Massacre of St. 
Bartholomew—Cruelties on both Sides—Characters of Principal Ac¬ 
tors—Political not Religious Move—Palais Royal—Garden and Walks 
of Palais Royal—Pontaine and Statue of Moliere—Island of the Seine— 
Statue of Henry IY.—Yisit to La Morgue—Affecting Scene. 

OT far from the Louvre stands the Church of St. 



^ Germain L’Auxerrois, a gaudy edifice, remarkable 
for its historic associations. Some may admire the old 
Byzantine frescoes in * the porch; its double row of 
Gothic arches, on the west entrance, five in front and 
three in the rear; the elaborate gilding of the inte¬ 
rior ; the superb railing of the choir, and the numer¬ 
ous side altars—in truth they, as well as the richly 
stained windows, are to be admired—but I had seen 
in the Louvre so much of paintings; of rich and val¬ 
uable treasures of art, that I looked upon the gorgeous 
wonders of St. Germain L’Auxerrois with half interest. 
Its history deserves, however, a brief notice. It was 


TRADITION OF BELL. 


269 


founded by Childeric in the sixth century, destroyed 
by the Normans in 886, and in 998 restored by Robert 
of Normandy, and dedicated to St. Germain. In 1744 
it underwent numerous alterations. The rich railing 
surrounding the choir was made in 1743, during the 
first French Revolution. This church, though known 
to be the recipient of royal favors, was spared by the 
rabble ; but in 1831 it was not so fortunate. On the 
occasion of an anniversary funeral service for the 
Duke of Berry, the populace violated the church, and 
destroyed the most of its interior. In 1838 it was 
again opened for public service. 

What interested me more than all connected with 
this church, was the famous bell hanging in one of its 
spires, which is traditionally said to have tolled forth 
the sad warning for the massacre of St. Bartholomew 
on the 24th of August, 1572. I was impatient to 
climb the ladder, and gaze first on that, then look 
across the Seine, and view the gloomy battlements of 
the prison Conciergerie, from which J tis said the sound 
was echoed back, as murder, rapine, and indiscrimi¬ 
nate slaughter prevailed, and Coligni, with so many 
of his Huguenot followers, was massacred ! The tra¬ 
dition is based more on excited prejudice than reality, 
while cool, dispassionate history, written by the pen 
of truth and justice, places that fearful and bloody 
transaction in a light quite different from sectarian 
hatred, or pulpit rodomontade. Whose soul has not 
been harrowed ; whose sense of duty, nay, even of 
manhood, has not been shocked at the cruelty of 
Charles IX. and of Catholic France against the very 
innocent, Unoffending Calvinists of that reign ? 


270 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


One of my earliest recollections is of a speech 
made at a public school in Boston, in which the “ orator 
of the day,” a very “ Jupiter tonans,” in my youth¬ 
ful fancy, descanted at length, not on the subject of 
school education, and of encouraging us hoys to attend 
regularly; but on the glorious privilege of teaching 
the Bible and true history, by which papist children 
might be warned against the errors of their parents, 
and learn to curse the Pope, despise their fathers and 
mothers because they were Catholics, and hate the 
religion which canonized the authors of the Gunpow¬ 
der Plot, the Inquisition and the Massacre of St. Bar¬ 
tholomew. It is needless to say that I never forgot 
the speaker, nor have I since forgotten to pity the ig¬ 
norance and despise the effrontery of such Don Quix¬ 
otes ! What is the fact ? Does the church approve 
this bloody action ? Ho. Had the church any thing 
to do with this retaliatory measure of Charles IX. ? 
Ho. Is the Catholic Church responsible for the polit¬ 
ical movements of her nominal or real professors ; the 
vindictive passion of kings, their measures for revenge 
or for self-protection; the wild excesses carried on 
under the holy name of religion, or ambitious schemes 
cloaked by a plea of necessity ? Is Protestantism 
justly charged with the cruelties in the East Indies, 
in Ireland, or England, so long committed against the 
Pagans of the former, and the Catholics of the 
latter ? Is Protestantism, as a form of religion, to be 
charged with the treason of a Benedict Arnold, the 
insurrection of the “ Whiskey Boys” in Pennsylva¬ 
nia, the burning of churches, convents, and academies 
of learning, in our own days ? Brutal insults are of- 


ST. BARTHOLOMEW. 


271 


fered, even to Sisters of Charity, by violating the 
privacy of their sleeping apartments to look for con¬ 
cealed muskets, in the Charity Hospital at Hew Or¬ 
leans. Is this unmanly movement, revolting alike to 
Christian and to pagan honor, to be attributed to Pro¬ 
testantism as a religion ? Out upon such a violation 
of terms—of truth—of justice! We can offer no 
apology for either. We must, in common with every 
honest man, and every lover of historic truth, execrate 
the whole series of outrages enumerated, while we 
should trace each to its real source. Who was this 
boasted martyr, Admiral Gaspard de Coligni ? The 
greatest scourge that in his day desolated France. 
The leader of a set of fanatics, who sought to dethrone 
the Queen Pegent, Catharine de Medicis, and carry 
off the rightful heir, Charles IX., that they might de¬ 
stroy the religion and dynasty of France! The en- 
courager and abettor of the death of the Duke of 
Guise, as is established by the trial of the assassin 
Poltrot, and finally the victim of his monarch’s fears, 
whether real or imaginary, on the morning of the 24th 
August, 1572. What was the cause of that fearful 
massacre ? Let it be announced ! Let its authors be 
exposed to the merited execration of the world ; but 
let not pure, unsullied religion be made responsible. 
Who that has read French History, but knows the 
temper, waywardness, and pride of the boy king, 
Charles IX., even under the weak regency of his 
mother, Catharine de Medicis, of whom little good can 
be said. His vaulting ambition could but ill brook 
the obstinacy of his Huguenot subjects, who, on their 
part, under the leadership of Conde and Coligni, kept 


272 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


the realm in continual excitement. His was not a 
disposition to forgive the revolt of Conde at Orleans, 
or the taking of Rouen ; the murder of Guise during 
the king’s minority ; or the hold attempt at Monceaux 
to seize his person, though then declared of age in his 
fourteenth year; nominally to secrete him until his 
twenty-second year ; but in reality to destroy him and 
his succession. From this we may date his undying 
animosities to the Huguenots. He was even jealous 
of his own noble brother, the Duke d’Anjou, whose 
fame was heralded by all. And when the unfortunate 
Coligni was butchered; when the sword, and the 
torch, and cruelties in the most horrid form,, were let 
loose against the Huguenots, it was because of his dis¬ 
covery of a plot to destroy himself and the count. 
Let the suspicion be real or false, it was as sudden in 
determining him as it was frightful in its effects. The 
leaders of the Huguenots had been long the declared 
enemies of the crown and religion of France. True, 
Coligni had been restored to his rank and position at 
court, after his defeat at the battle of Jarnac and 
Mont Contour, in 1569. True, Charles made him a 
present of a hundred thousand francs, to secure his 
friendship, and bestowed many marks of personal fa¬ 
vor on him. Let these things be estimated as they 
may, we know the bold defiant tone of the Huguenot 
party ; their unceasing efforts to destroy the religion 
and throne of France ; that the sense of personal dan¬ 
ger was but ill calculated to induce Charles to treat 
with subjects whom he always called and considered 
rebels. We know that by the compromise, during 
his minority, by his unfortunate mother, between the 


THE HUGUENOTS. 


273 


two contending parties in 1561, at Poissy, Charles 
had treated his Calvinist subjects with clemency, &c., 
and even had drawn censure upon himself for his mild¬ 
ness until the ceaseless troubles and bold attempts upon 
his person excited him to fury ; that thenceforth “ se¬ 
verity to them ” was, as he said, “ but justice to him¬ 
self.” Still their bravado and insurrectionary move¬ 
ments throughout France were but increased by the 
treacherous attempt to assassinate Coligni, as he was 
returning from the Council Board of the Louvre ; an 
outrage condemned by Charles, as he might readily 
have accomplished his death, had such been his inten¬ 
tion, by other means. In a word, with his many 
causes for apprehension, his irritable disposition, the 
constant outbreaks and excesses of the foreign mer¬ 
cenaries, brought into France in 1563 ; their cruelties 
and vandalism in Orleans; and, wherever they be¬ 
came masters, their violation of the agreements by 
which, notwithstanding their rebellions, freedom of 
conscience was guaranteed to them in certain cities ; 
their plot against Lyons, Harbonne, and Avignon; 
the bold impudence of the pamphlet written by one 
of the Huguenots at Orleans, setting forth that the 
people were absolved from allegiance to the king be¬ 
cause he was an idolater; that it would be a work 
pleasing to God to kill him, which seditious doctrine 
was urged from the pulpit and the press ; the openly 
avowed purpose of the Huguenots to dethrone and 
murder Charles, and substitute Conde in his stead; 
their laying siege to Paris; the fanaticism of Coligni, 
who, from his strong fortress of La Rochelle, authorized 
his deluded followers to go forth on piratical expedi- 
12 * 


274 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


tions to procure for him the means of continuing the 
revolt; their indiscriminate cruelties to all who fell 
within their power ; their sacking and destruction of 
churches and charitable institutions; their openly 
avowed doctrine, that no faith was to he kept with 
Catholics; the evident danger to himself, to his crown, 
and to the religion he professed, though he did not 
practise it; the fifteen years of bloodshed and intes¬ 
tine strife, of religious wars and rebellions under Fran¬ 
cis II. and his own reign—in a w T ord, surrounded as 
he was by threatening dangers, constant alarms, 
treacherous foes, and the most unrelenting, because 
religiously fanatical enemies on the one side; on the 
other, by jealous, intriguing courtiers, ambitious ad¬ 
visers, ever seeking their own aggrandizement, no 
matter at what expense, as unscrupulous as they w T ere 
ambitious, as revengeful, no doubt, as their opponents ; 
and then the boy king, who since his assuming the 
reins of government, in his fourteenth year, until the 
memorable event of wdiich we are speaking when he 
^ was scarce 22 years of age, had been goaded to mad¬ 
ness by the excesses of his Huguenot subjects, and 
badly counselled by his court—let these things, I 
say, be taken into consideration, when the sudden de¬ 
termination of the king, Charles IX., was made to 
avert a conspiracy accidentally discovered, to include 
himself, his mother, and his court in one indiscrimi¬ 
nate slaughter; and foul as the deed was, and unjusti¬ 
fiable on Christian grounds, how can any honest man 
attribute the massacre of St. Bartholomew to the 
Catholic Church ? The king acted always with little 
obedience to the teachings of that church. He was a 


AND ARE YE GUILTLESS? 


275 


Catholic, it is true; but, like many others, his actions 
belied his profession. He took no counsel of its min¬ 
isters on the occasion of his decree for the massacre. 
It was either a retaliative measure on his part, or, 
more likely, a blow for self-preservation ; a mere an¬ 
ticipating of what had otherwise befallen himself and 
the Catholics of France. How, in view of the real 
state of affairs, it is simply absurd to attach blame to 
the religion of France. It would seem that the ex¬ 
pressed avowal of Charles should free his religion from 
the foul stigma; for in his order, the day of the mas¬ 
sacre, he states that all had been done by his own 
will, moved thereto, not by love to his own church, 
nor hatred to the Calvinist doctrine, but to obviate the 
conspiracy of Coligni and his adherents. He never 
forgave the indignity to his youth, when the Hugue¬ 
nots threatened to whip him as an incorrigible boy, 
and then bind him apprentice to a trade! Hor did 
he pardon the discovered plot against his manhood, 
when they sought to murder him and his brother to 
place the crown upon another’s brow! After all we 
hear of the horrors of St. Bartholomew, what was 
it to the long centuries of bloody persecution, syste¬ 
matic murder, wholesale butcheries by fire, flood, and 
torture, endured by the Catholics of England and Ire¬ 
land under Elizabeth, Edward VI., and James I.? 
Yet who speaks of them, when not fifteen thousand 
were put to death, during the violence and excite¬ 
ment of St. Bartholomew’s day, in Paris; but as many 
millions were murdered for no crime, but because 
they were Catholics! What magazine or school book 
of our country is not filled with pictures setting forth 


276 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


these horrors to frighten children, startle nervous old 
ladies, and keep alive religions animosity; while 
scarce a store, magazine, or school hook, or almanac 
bnt teems with the horrors of Popery, as illustrated 
by the massacre of St. Bartholomew. Is this honest \ 
Is it truth ? Heartless indeed, and a monster, must he' 
be who would justify either the former or the latter. 
Strip both of the cloak assumed to cover the hypocrisy 
of designing men, and let the truth stand forth in all 
its horrid deformity. Let not the sanctuary be stained 
with the moral guilt which blackens the souls of mon¬ 
sters, who, in the holy name of truth, 

“ Deal destruction round the land 
On all they deem God’s foe ! ” 

Elizabeth was a wicked, persecuting, vile woman, 
though a shrewd and able queen—Edward YI. as 
brainless as he w^as puling—James I. as headless as he 
was cruel—and Charles IX. as revengeful as he was 
corrupt—they were all persecutors, each seeking in 
his day and generation to elevate himself by crushing 
others, some with more semblance of right than others, 
but all as far from the pure, mild influence of the 
Christian spirit, as man can be who 


“ Steals the livery of Heaven to serve the devil in.” 

Who is ignorant of the cruelties and massacres per¬ 
petrated in almost every part of Europe, in the XYIth 
century, not unfrequently under the cloak of religion ? 
And who can deny that, even in our own days, the 
same fell spirit is sacrificing its victims to sectarian 


CRUELTY. 


277 


bigotry and party strife! Political wars are dreadful 
enough ; but when the watch-word of religion is used 
to increase its frenzy, there is nothing so dark or 
bloody, so uncompromising or ferocious as these 
politico-religious wars. The fact of which we are 
speaking attests this. It was but a quicker move on 
the chess-board of party strife, by which one party 
was check-mated before he served his rival the same. 
It was a foul and bloody game, where all the angry 
passions of man were roused. Perfidy and cruelty 
marked each side. Rebellion on one side, with the 
openly avowed intention of murdering the king, over¬ 
throwing the established religion of the land, and 
substituting the Prince Conde, the leader of the 
Huguenots, for the legitimate monarch. On the other, 
undying hatred to the Calvinists, who were considered 
the abettors of every species of barbarity, and the 
sworn foes to the civil and religious institutions of the 
land. The royalists, goaded on by the seditious doc¬ 
trines promulgated in public and in private, from the 
pulpit and the press, by which they considered the 
insolence of a new party seeking to uproot the old 
system established for so many hundred years, and a re¬ 
ligion, which, had they practised it as faithfully as they 
defended, would have banished these unnatural strifes 
by the holy influence of the gospel: and the follow¬ 
ers of Luther and Calvin led on by Beza, Coligni and 
Conde, who proclaimed that kings lost their authority 
when they opposed the Reformation, and that thereby 
they lost the tenure of right and realm ! Men, insti¬ 
gated by such demoralizing doctrines, were not slow 
in manifesting the spirit within them; entering into 


278 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


an agreement with Queen Elizabeth of England, the 
natural enemy of France, to surrender some of the 
strongholds in Normandy to the English government, 
from which they received men and money to carry 
on their wars, for the avowed purpose of revolution¬ 
izing France, and introducing the Reformation, as they 
construed it, into the dominions of Charles ! Hence 
we find them introducing German mercenaries into 
France, and allowing them to butcher, slay, and de¬ 
vastate at will! Hence we find them butchering 
priests at the altar, fastening them to crosses, and 
amusing themselves by firing at their hearts ! Coligni 
even falsifying his word, that no violence should be 
offered the citizens of a town which resisted him, by 
ordering the superior of the Franciscan Convent to be 
murdered in his presence, amid the sacrilegious cry, 
“ Long live the Gospel ! ” Hence we find the monster 
Baron d’Adret, who wore around his neck a collar 
made of the ears of priests he had murdered, sig¬ 
nalizing his victories by forcing the Catholic pris¬ 
oners to jump from the walls and battlements upon 
the spears and pikes of his soldiers beneath,—and 
forced his children to wash their hands in the blood 
of Catholics! As a counterpart to these bloody 
scenes, may be alleged the cruelties perpetrated by 
the Catholic party—their inhuman murders—shame¬ 
less and obscene mutilatioil of the aged Coligni— 
the wholesale butcheries of men, women and children 
by the minions of the vacillating King Charles IX., 
who, it is said, but without authority, inhumanly 
fired at the frantic crowd rushing to the Louvre for 
protection! Oh! let us turn from such horrid scenes. 


HISTORIC TRUTH. 


279 


Could either party have been instigated by the pure 
spirit of religion! Is it not evident that the spirit of 
darkness was abroad, that each was actuated by base 
passions, fanaticism, and cruelty ; by the same spirit 
which, under similar circumstances, would produce 
similar results in other countries. In each, religion 
was outraged. That holy system which teaches sub¬ 
jection to higher powers—in obedience to ITim from 
whom the power cometh, and also that revenge be¬ 
longs not to man, -was disregarded; and the baser 
portion of the soul—its angry passions and corrupt 
appetites ruled in the name of conscience! Would 
that the fault were all on one side! Then men would 
j udge correctly, and learn to execrate the cause : but 
unfortunately both parties are to blame; neither can 
be excused for the dark crimes registered against 
them. Humanity shudders at the recollection of the 
scene—religion mourns over it; while an avenging 
Heaven has vindicated its justice by the awful deaths 
of nearly all, beginning with Charles himself, impli¬ 
cated in the massacre of St. Bartholomew ! 

I have dwelt perhaps too long on this subject; but I 
could not refrain from expressing, openly, my estimate 
of the event. I know the avidity with which our young 
men seek after knowledge; and of the few sources many 
of them can consult for true historical facts. I know too 
the many occasions when the Catholic youth feels his 
cheek crimson with shame, or his soul filled with indig¬ 
nation, when he sees or hears this fact with many others 
adduced by every flippant speaker or penny-a-liner, 
as proof against his religion; and knowing these 
things, and writing for such, how could I refrain from 


280 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


telling what, from study and reflection, I know to be 
the truth? On our homeward way we will pass 
through Rue Rivoli; and opposite the north wing of the 
Tuileries and Louvre, facing the St. Honore, pay a fly¬ 
ing visit to one of the most singular places in Paris, the 
“ Palais Royal.” It is quite eminent in historic asso¬ 
ciations. In 1629 it was built for Cardinal Richelieu, 
by whom it was presented to Louis XIII. It subse¬ 
quently became the property of Louis XIV., who 
gave it to his ignoble brother, the Duke of Orleans, 
or Philip Egalite, the fratricide ! Ho spot in France, 
perhaps, has been the scene of more profligacy than 
this palace. It is needless to dwell on its history— 
’tis but a succession of vice, of plots, of gilded vil¬ 
lainy, of political intrigues, of Frondist machina¬ 
tions, of Jacobin and Red Republican orgies. Here 
met the Girondists, who failed in their attempt to 
grasp power, and whose brightest geniuses perished 
on the scaffold during the revolution. Under the first 
Empire it was the residence of Lucien Bonaparte; 
but in 1814 it was restored to the Orleans family. 
Here Louis Philippe resided until he ascended the 
throne in 1831. By him it was enriched with a valu¬ 
able collection of paintings, which in the Vandal fury 
of the revolution in 1848, together with many other 
rare productions of art, were for the most part destroy¬ 
ed. It is now the residence of Prince Jerome Bona¬ 
parte. The entrance from the Place du Palais Royal, 
guarded as all are by soldiers, seemed any thing but 
cheerful to me. It presents a sombre prison-like ap¬ 
pearance, and seems well adapted to the purposes to 
which it has been successively dedicated. In the 


JARDIN DU PALAIS ROYAL. 


281 


rear of the palace is the “ Jardin du Palais Royal.” 
This garden is an enchanting spot, ornamented with 
four rows of lime and elm trees—a graceful fountain 
—numerous statues, among which are some perfect 
gems—and arcades or offices where you may buy the 
papers of the day. The garden is surrounded by 
lofty buildings, forming on one side the Orleans gal¬ 
lery, and on the others by various public and royal 
edifices, all of which have, on the ground floor, very 
splendid stores, cafes, and saloons perfectly bewilder¬ 
ing to a stranger. I had heard and read much of 
this place—of the crowds nearly always there—and 
of the fairy-like appearance it wore when at evening 
these stores, &c., were lit up with brilliant display— 
music in the gardens—and the joyous laugh from 
groups of children, and the no less noisy groups of 
people, all apparently unmindful of the labors of the 
day, of every thing but the pleasures of the moment. 
I visited the garden at evening repeatedly—and if 
any thing were wanted to convince me of the light¬ 
heartedness of the Parisians, their adaptedness to cir¬ 
cumstances, and cheerful politeness, it was here seen. 
Truly these Parisians are an enigma to me! 

My attention was frequently attracted in my wan¬ 
derings, by the graceful “ Fontaine de Moliere,” in 
the neighborhood of the Palais Royal. It stands op¬ 
posite the house where the French poet died, and is 
at the corner of Rue Richelieu and Fountain Moliere. 
A white marble pedestal supports a bronze statue of 
the “ Father of French Comedy,” as he is styled ; 
the poet is represented seated, reading one of his own 
manuscripts. The effect is pleasing. A large basin 


282 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


or stone cistern receives the water perpetually spout¬ 
ing from the mouths of three lions. While studying 
this, I could but reflect on the weakness of even the 
most talented men when the voice of conscience con¬ 
flicts with interest. Who can deny that Moliere is a 
striking exemplification of this ? He may deserve 
the title given him of “ Father of French Comedy—” 
he may have won the favor of Louis XIII., and en¬ 
joyed the patronage of Louis XIV.—pleasing and 
witty writer as he was, and tolerable actor in comedy 
—yet who can deny that the voice of conscience was 
stifled at the shrine of interest ? Who can deny that 
he was an immoral writer, a greater enemy and more 
fatal to virtue and religion that those who openly 
attacked them ? He elevates vice, and ridicules vir¬ 
tue—he gilds villainy, and depreciates morality—he 
scoffs at parental authority, filial obedience, and the 
most sacred ties of domestic life—and all this under 
so captivating a garb, so insinuating a style, that the 
reader smiles, and thus seemingly approves, even 
when his sense of right is shocked ! Every where in 
his works we find the most extravagant vices dressed 
in the garb, and excused as human weakness—and 
satire and ridicule pointed at truth—honest poverty a 
crime—luxury and ill-gotten wealth a paramount 
virtue ! Such a writer was Moliere, the idol of the 
French theatre. Who that has read his Amphytrion 
—or his Misanthrope—the former not the most objec¬ 
tionable—the latter by far the least so, of all his pub¬ 
lished works, but must admit, that, if to be a corrup¬ 
ter of innocence be necessary to improve the litera¬ 
ture of the age, learning is a curse, and worse than 


LA MORGUE. 


283 


folly, nay wicked—to be wise! Moliere exemplified, in 
bis own case, “ the folly ” lie so frequently and so sar¬ 
castically held up to ridicule, that of a husband trust¬ 
ing to the honesty of his own wife! He married an 
actress of low comedy! His end was like his life, 
uncheered by the consolations of religion, although 
he had been piously educated by the Jesuits in early 
youth. Over-exertions in acting a part in his play, 
“ La Malade Imaginaire,” brought on convulsions, 
and a violent vomiting of blood, which terminated his 
existence in his 53d year, in 1673. Who can deny 
that Moliere was greatly instrumental in bringing 
about that corruption of morals—neglect of religion 
—and love of excitement induced by indulgences in 
vice, which eventuated in the French Revolution? 

Our stay in Paris is drawing to a close, and we are 
warned to dwell less at length on the interesting and 
historic reminiscences attached to almost every public 
institution in this city. In our rambles to-day, we 
will visit, hurriedly, u La Morgue,” that receptacle of 
the dead, to which a curiosity, morbid if you will, 
yet active, urges me. Taking in our route some of 
the numerous institutions time will not allow us to 
dwell upon, crossing the “ Pont Neuf,” we reach 
the Island of the Seine, and pass on the west the 
beautiful equestrian statue of Henry IV., and on the 
east the Place Dauphine, planned by Henry IV., in 
honor of his son, who subsequently became Louis 
XIII., and in which stands a statue of Gen. Desaix, 
who fell in the battle of Marengo; we turn down the 
“ Quai des Orfevres,” towards the bridge of St. 
Michael, and proceed toward Notre Dame Cathedral: 


284 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


we see on our right a low square building on the bank 
of the Seine. It is the “ Morgue,” to which the vic¬ 
tims of accident or suicide are conveyed from the 
various quarters of Paris, that they may be there 
kept as long as possible for recognition. Here let us 
enter: a motley group surrounds the door, ever open, 
a sense of respect for the place seems to pervade even 
the idlers lounging around, and descanting on the 
manner by which the inmates came to their death—• 
on entering, a sense of dread comes over you—a sti¬ 
fling sensation oppresses you—the hall is open, well 
ventilated, and as clean as a charnel house daily re- 
jflenished can be. On your left are high iron gratings, 
beyond which, on elevated stone or brass slabs, like 
inclined planes, are the bodies of such as have 
been murdered, drowned, or have otherwise died by 
violence, within the last twenty-four hours, and un¬ 
claimed by relatives or friends. The bodies are 
decently covered, leaving enough exposed for recog¬ 
nition, should any come to claim them. It is impos¬ 
sible to describe the feelings one experiences, as he here 
stands and gazes on “ Death’s doings! ” On each of 
my repeated visits new subjects were extended on the 
tables. Above each, hang the garments or rags he 
wore when brought a corpse to this receptacle. On 
one occasion, the last visit I made to this dead house, 
the last I hope ever to make, a poor woman entered 
with the crowd in daily attendance here, to seek in 
fear and trembling, for her only son, who, mayhap, 
might be among the dead. Many poor mothers, fa¬ 
thers, wives, and relatives, seek here daily the result 
of dissipation, vice, and misfortune! A tear moist¬ 
ened my eye while listening to the deep, half sup- 


MOKGUE. 


285 


pressed grief of that mother, as she poured forth her 
anguish over the mutilated form of her “ only son.” 
I learned from a bystander that her once noble boy 
had fallen into bad company; had been seduced from 
honor, home, and from the salutary advice of her 
whose love was stronger, truer, purer than all, his 
mother; and shame, and disgrace, and misguided re¬ 
morse hurried him from the gambling table to the 
Seine—and he sought in suicide that relief the world 
could not afford—and to avoid exposure before man, 
he rushed unshrived and unforgiven into the presence 
of his Maker ! Oh! there was something to harrow 
the soul and wring the strongest heart as the mother, 
who had watched over his infancy, and rested his 
young head upon her bosom, now bowed down by 
long years of anguish, knelt before the grate as the 
officer came to unlock the door and lift out the corpse, 
and enshroud it for the coffin! Poor, heart-broken 
mother! thy gray hairs are bent over thy boy, but he 
knows it not! thy lips are pressed to his swollen face, 
but he feels them not—thy arms are thrown convul¬ 
sively around him, but he is dead ! The light of thy 
eyes is gone—the hope of thy heart is crushed—thy 
idol is shattered—thy home shall be now doubly deso¬ 
late—and thou shalt go sorrowing to the grave. No 
child to smooth thy gray hairs in death, and none to 
kneel upon thy grave in prayer ! But cheer thee, poor 
lone one ! May the Father of the widow comfort 
thee ! I left this dreary place, oppressed with sad¬ 
ness ; for it brought to mind scenes I had not unfre- 
quently witnessed. It was a good lesson to curb both 
pride and presumption. 


/ 


CHAPTER XXI. 


L’Hotel Dieu—Hotel de Yille—The Infidel Paine—La Fayette—La Mar- 
tine—Church of St. Gervais—The Regicide Ravillac—Anecdote of 
Henry IV.—Church of St. Merry—Palais de Justice—Sainte Chapelle— 
Prison of Conciergerie—Madame Elizabeth—Robespierre—Les Girond- 
ins—Bastile—Colonne de Juillet—Death of Arbp. of Paris—Prison of St. 
Pelagie 1848—Madame du Barri—Colonel Swan—Abbey Prison—Made¬ 
moiselle de Dombreuil—Mademoiselle Elizabeth Cazotte—Archbishop 
of Arles—Princess Lamballe—Her trial and execution—Prison of Le 
Temple—Massacres in prisons of Paris between 2d and 6th Sept., 1792. 



OXTIXUIXG our walk east, we come to “ L’Ho- 


Vy tel Dieu,” a building unprepossessing in appear¬ 
ance, and divided into two parts by tbe river. Ap¬ 
plying for admission, I was immediately ushered into 
the large hall from which, in different directions, 
diverge the wards for the sick. This hospital, or a 
similar one, dates as far back as the Tilth century. It 
was endowed largely by Philip Augustus, and after 
him by St. Louis IX.; since which time it has grown 
in wealth and usefulness, until, like the hospital of 
“ St. Spirito ” in Pome, it is the richest establish¬ 
ment of the kind in Paris. There are upwards of 
1260 beds for the sick. It is a truly interesting spot 
for such as have inclination to view “ the ills which 
flesh is heir to.” Passing by the Cathedral of Xotre 


HOTEL DE VILLE. 


287 


Dame, of which we have spoken, and crossing from 
the island by the Pont d’Arcole, to the north side 
of the Seine, we come to the splendid Guildhall, or 
Hotel de Yille, an immense pile of building, asso¬ 
ciated with every succeeding change of government 
in France. The present edifice, with its illuminated 
clock, imposing towers, and numerous statues, is of 
rather modern date; the old one being too small for 
the purpose. Over the principal entrance is a life- 
sized equestrian statue of Henry IV.; each facade, of 
which there are four, is richly ornamented with 
columns, statues, &c. There are many splendid halls 
devoted to the municipal affairs of the city, and to 
the residence of subordinate members of the govern¬ 
ment. The immense stairway leading to the princi¬ 
pal saloons or halls, is considered a masterpiece of 
design and skill ; but what fills the visitors with more 
than usual interest, is the recollection of the varied 
events here enacted. Scarce an insurrection or event 
of public notoriety in France, for the last five hun¬ 
dred years, but is in some way intimately asso¬ 
ciated with this spot. It was here the revolution, 
called “ Maillotins,” because those engaged in it were 
armed with iron mallets, to destroy the robbers of the 
public treasury, as they called, with truth, the uncles 
of the young king, Charles V., commenced in 1368. 
It was here the Frondists held their meetings—here 
the bloody councils of Kobespierre and the revolu¬ 
tionary tribunal were held—here Louis XVI. appear¬ 
ed before the excited multitude, bearing through com¬ 
pulsion, the “ bonnet rouge,” or red republican cap 
of freedom—here Robespierre, Billant, Varmes, Col- 


288 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


lot, and Danton, harangued the 300 assassins, scat¬ 
tered money and drink among them, and urged them 
on to the massacre of Abbaye Prison—here were the 
24 priests confined, who, soon after the address of the 
above ruffians, were sent in six coaches to the Abbaye, 
where they were butchered—here was the mock trial 
of Louis XVI., and his sentence of death decreed— 
here the notorious Tom Paine, all unmindful of the 
debt of gratitude he owed to Louis XVI., by whom 
he had been treated with marked attention, and from 
whom he had received, as representative of America, 
then struggling for freedom, six millions of francs in 
public, besides large amounts in money and in arms pri¬ 
vately, to aid the cause of the young republic; Paine, 
a foreigner by birth, so ignorant of the language that 
he could not express himself; Paine, honored by the 
friendship of Franklin and Jefferson, yet intriguing 
for and succeeding in election to the office of Deputy 
to the National Convention from Calais; here he 
ungratefully turned upon the benefactor of that cause 
he had so professed to aid, and read in English a 
tirade of abuse against a monarch whose policy, 
whose religion, even whose language he knew not! 
With Madame Poland, a fit associate for such a man, 
and Brissot and Condorcet, he sought the death of 
him in whom the United States had found a friend 
and faithful ally ! Here Kobespierre, with his com¬ 
panions, was seized and attempted suicide; here La 
Fayette, in 1830, presented Louis Philippe to the 
French people, as their future sovereign—and here La 
Martine, the poet statesman, perilled his popularity 
and his life, in 1848, when he proudly proclaimed 


HENRY IV. 


289 


before an excited multitude, that the red flag should 
never be the flag of France ! 

Surely so many and so opposite events can scarce 
be said to cluster around any other public edifice in 
Paris. Not far from the Hotel de Ville stands the 
gothic church of St. Gervais ; it dates from the Vltli 
century, and is noted for its high vaulted roof, stained 
windows, side chapels, grand imposing front, and nu¬ 
merous statues. I was forcibly struck by a large 
painting of St. Ambrose refusing entrance to the 
church to the Emperor Theodosius. 

As we passed along the Rue Rivoli, and in our way 
to the “ Palais de justice,” I noticed a bust of King 
Henry IV., in a niche in the wall of No. 3, Rue St. 
Honore. It was here that Ravillac, the regicide, stood, 
when he assassinated the king. There is an anecdote 
related of this glorious monarch, who was deserving 
a noble death. He was much of a wag, and mingled 
freely among the people. On one occasion he was 
very cold while walking along, all mutfled in furs, and 
his attention was attracted by a poor man, who, though 
thinly clad, seemed quite satisfied, as he sauntered 
along. The king jocosely asked him how it was 
there was such a difference? “Sire,” replied the 
other, “ if you would do as I, you would never suffer 
with the cold.” “And how, pray, is that? “ Why, Sire , 
by simply putting on all the clothing you have ! If 
you do so, as I have, then indeed you'll never suffer 
with cold ! ” The king enjoyed the repartee, and re¬ 
warded its author with a comfortable suit of clothes! 
While in this neighborhood, let us pay a visit to the 
church of St. Merry, on the street St. Martin. Its 
13 


290 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


imposing front is nearly concealed by the lofty build¬ 
ings snrronnding the church. It is graceful and ele¬ 
gant in its details. On the occasion of my first visit 
I was edified by the solemnity with which Benedic¬ 
tion of the Blessed Sacrament was given ; and the 
sweet voices of children chanting the old familiar 
“ Adoremus,” “ O Salutaris,” and “ Tantum Ergo,” 
fell on my ears like echoes from a far off land. 

The “Palais de Justice ” stands on the island, and 
faces the street St. Burilleve. It was the residence of 
the kings of France, from Hugh Capet, A. L). 1000, 
to Charles Y., who left it in 1534; and also of the 
sainted King Louis IX. It has been on several occa¬ 
sions partially destroyed by fire, and has undergone 
many alterations. Its principal purpose now is for 
the holding courts of law. On the north front there 
are several cone-shaped towers, in one of which, the * 
“ Tour de Horloge,” is the celebrated clock made by 
a German in 1370, and presented to Charles Y.; 
over it hung the alarm bells which is said to have 
answered the signal for the massacre of the 24th 
August, 1572. If it ever hung there it does not 
now. The exterior of the palace is pleasing, if you 
can but divest yourself of its gloomy associations. 
In the “ Salle de pas Perdus,” where prisoners walk¬ 
ed until called into the hall to receive sentence, stands 
a statue of Malesherbe, the bold opposer of Louis 
XYI., before his downfall, and his faithful defender, 
during the monarch’s trial. We will not delay to 
visit the Hall of Archives, in which are preserved, as 
I was informed, many interesting curiosities, among 
them the proceedings against Bavillac, the murderer 


SAINTE CIIAPELLE. 


291 


of Henry IV., and dated 16th May, 1610 ; the old 
clothes worn by Dannien, the regicide, on his way to 
execution. It will be remembered that this Dannien 
was the assassin who plunged the knife into the side of 
Louis XV., the 5th January, 1757; and although un¬ 
successful in his attempt to murder the king, was 
executed in the same cruel manner as Bavillac. 
There is also here an old rope ladder ingeniously made 
by a prisoner, who failed in his attempt to escape by it 
from the old Bastile; I must acknowledge that even my 
prying curiosity had no relish for such things. The 
“ Sainte Cliapelle,” of which we have briefly spoken, 
some pages back, forms the south side of this Palace. 
It is remarkable for its stained windows, and light, 
airy style of architecture. It forms but one nave and 
choir. The principal events in the crusades of St. 
Louis are commemorated in four large stained windows, 
while a number of smaller ones surround the choir. 
There is not perhaps in Paris a chapel or church so 
delicate in all its details of architecture, both exter¬ 
nal and internal, notwithstanding so many vicissitudes 
from fire and Vandals. It was erected in 1242 by the 
sainted leader of the Crusaders, to receive the sacred 
crown of thorns, the relic of the true cross, and the 
spear ■which pierced our Saviour’s side on the cross. 
A more exciting spot to visit is the prison of the Con- 
ciergerie, forming the rear of the Palais de Justice. 
By influence of a valued friend in Paris I was permitted 
to enter the low-grated archway on the Place de Graves, 
through which so many thousands have passed only to 
return to their place of execution, or the tomb ! How I 
trembled as I entered the low gateway leading to “La 



292 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


Conciergerie! ” It is like entering a living tomb. 
There is a dread, a frowning, angry, growling aspect in 
all surrounding you. The guards at the door—the dark 
battlements above you—the rattling of arms—the mov¬ 
ing of bolts which strike terror to the stranger’s soul; 
and then, above all, the gloomy recollections connected 
with this place ! I must confess I would have con¬ 
sidered my visit to Paris much more incomplete had 
an opportunity failed me of visiting its prisons; for 
why see the lights on a picture, its bright tints and 
golden hues, without the shadows, the dark lines, and 
back ground ? 

The prison of the Conciergerie, of which we are 
more particularly speaking, has many claims to our 
attention, from its antiquity and historic interest. It 
was originally the prison of the palace: but is now 
more a place of confinement for prisoners awaiting 
trial. How many have entered its gloomy gateway 
with bleeding hearts and crushed hopes ! During the 
feudal system it was the stronghold of power; and 
when France became a kingdom, how many of its 
former feudal lords pined within these dungeons in 
hopeless captivity! During the first French revo¬ 
lution, how many thousands were incarcerated here, 
preparatory to the guillotine ! Here was confined 
the illustrious queen Maria Antoinette, consort of 
Louis XYI. The dungeon she occupied is now a sweet 
little chapel. Here was imprisoned Madame Elizabeth, 
the king’s noble sister, who like the two preceding was 
sentenced to the guillotine. Here was caged that hyena 
Robespierre, with his equally savage companions, be¬ 
fore they were led to the scaffold to expiate, by a horrid 


BASTILE. 


293 


death, a still more horrid life. Here in the same hall, 
hut shortly before occupied by the virtuous Marie 
Antoinette, were confined the Girondists,—fanatics 
misguided in all they aimed at, and but little less 
guilty than the triumvirate and convention which con¬ 
demned them. Here they held their last carousal, 
their feast of death, of which we have spoken ; and 
here amid all the horrors of revolution, while men 
and women awaited each his turn to be led to execu¬ 
tion, they were seen to scoff at religion, to mock at 
death, and revel in all the vices of fallen humanity! 
Truly man has much to learn ! 

Who has not heard of the Bastile, the most execrat¬ 
ed of all the prisons of Paris, though not perhaps the 
most stained with blood. Thither, on leaving the 
Conciergerie, I wended my way that I might the more 
vividly recall to mind the scenes enacted in its destruc¬ 
tion. What a frowning pile must have been that an¬ 
cient feudal prison! It stood on the “ Place de la 
Bastille,” opposite the east end of the street St. An¬ 
toine. Its grounds were extensive. The prison was 
a strong fortress apparently defying all attack from 
without, and laughing at revolution ; well supplied 
with ammunition and food—its walls 140 feet high, 30 
feet thick at the base, and ten feet at the summit— 
pierced with loop holes for cannon and musketry— 
and protected by threefold gratings, dykes and bar¬ 
riers, it seemed to hurl defiance at the infuriated 
populace, which, however, on the 14th of July, 1789, 
took possession of it and demolished its walls, leav¬ 
ing, subsequently, not a stone upon a stone to tell 
where once it stood! I will not dwell upon the fear- 


294 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


ful struggle, the crowd of thirty thousand infuriated 
men, women and children, who rushed to the Hotel des 
Invalides, to demand the guns and ammunition there 
stored by the government. The noble stand taken by 
Dombreuil, the commander, who refused to deliver 
them without legitimate orders—the excited populace 
breaking into the asylum and carrying olf twenty- 
eight thousand muskets, and twenty cannons, which 
they turned against the walls of the Bastile,—these 
are all known to my readers—and the singular train 
of events which accelerated the surrender of the 
prison, its destruction, and the wild joy which hailed 
its downfall. Who ever has made a pilgrimage to 
the tomb of Washington, on the lovely banks of 
the Potomac, has observed a glass case fixed on the 
east as he enters. In it hangs a rusty old key, short 
and heavily made—’tis the key of the Bastile, sent by 
Lafayette, the young eaglet of our American revo¬ 
lution, to the bold mountain eagle, Washington ! 

The spot where once stood this gloomy prison is 
now adorned by a graceful bronze column 154 feet 
high and 12 in diameter. It stanps upon an arch 
over the canal St. Martin, and is supported by granite 
blocks and a white marble base ; above the capitol is a 
gilt globe, surmounted by a large gilt Genius of 
Liberty. On the sides of the column are the names of 
many who fell during the three memorable days of 1830, 
who are said to be buried here. In 1848, and indeed 
in every popular outbreak, this portion of Paris was 
the principal scene of disorder. Here were the most 
formidable barricades thrown up, and here was the 
most desperate struggle between the royalist troops 


ST. PELAGIE. 


295 


and tlie insurgents; liere it was that the lamented Arch- 
Bishop Afire was shot while, olive branch in hand, 
he mounted the barricade, and, in the middle of dan¬ 
ger, silenced the fire of both parties by the sublime 
appearance of a shepherd, exposing his own life for 
the safety of his flock; and had almost brought the 
belligerents to terms of agreement, when a shot, it 
may be accidental, but more than probable, determin¬ 
ed, struck down the holy prelate, wdio, with his dying 
breath, craved pardon for his murderer, and wished 
that his own blood might be the last shed in Paris. 
It was here too, that the noble Pegrier, a French 
general, fell while attacking the barricade. 

Next in our visit comes the ancient gloomy prison 
of St. Pelagie, on the old street “ de la Clef;” at pres¬ 
ent it is used for such prisoners as have offended 
against the state, and who are condemned to a long 
imprisonment. I was not so fortunate here as at the 
Conciergerie, for I was refused admission, in compli¬ 
ance with the standing rules. Yet who can hinder the 
mind of man, his thoughts, his memories of the past, 
from penetrating guarded walls, and visiting by the 
light of history, dungeons, cells, and caves? I stood 
opposite the prison, and busied myself in thinking of 
what I had read of its past. Above the door of this 
oldest prison in Paris is a slab setting forth its original 
destination—a holy retirement for such religious women 
as preferred to withdraw from the world. Different in¬ 
deed has been the use to which it has, in succeeding 
ages, been appropriated ! I could but think ot that frail 
enthusiast, Madame Poland, the talented, but misguid¬ 
ed, the wonder of her age, the soul of a school ot false 


296 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


philosophy, who was imprisoned here; and here was 
executed by that same revolutionary spirit, which her 
misapplied talents and false sense of political liberty 
had urged too effectually to action, that unfortunate 
woman, Madame du Berri, the courted of all, the 
foolish, vain worshipper at the shrine of popular ap¬ 
proval—here she shrieked in anguish and despair as 
the stern executioner dragged her forth to death. 
Here were learned the first lessons in humility and 
submission, by the widow of the noble Beauharnais, 
the future Empress Josephine, who meekly bowed her 
head to insults, wrongs, and outrages which have 
never been equalled ; and here that noble-souled, yet 
eccentric American prisoner, Si van, when, in course of 
time, St. Pelagic became a debtors’ prison, passed 
twenty years in bondage, despite the entreaties of in¬ 
fluential friends, among whom was Lafayette, his 
companion in arms under "Washington, in the Ameri¬ 
can revolution. In vain did they intreat him to ac¬ 
cept the terms of release, he rejected them all; and 
while by his ample funds many others were released 
from prison, he obstinately refused to pay a debt to a 
certain creditor, which he denied to be just. It 
was only in the revolution of 1830, when the insur¬ 
gents turned him out, that he left his prison cell, and 
died the following day ! 

I wished to visit either the principal prisons or the 
places where they once stood, and which have been 
rendered famous or infamous by bloody scenes dur¬ 
ing the revolution, but time forbade. I wished to see 
the Abbaye Prison, where, after the harangue of 
Robespierre, Billaud-Yarennes and Collot d’Herbois, 


TIIE CARMES. 


297 


at the Hotel de Ville, the -twenty-four priests were 
murdered in the inner court. Dreadful indeed must 
have been the scene—numerous the other victims 
there immolated to the moloch of infidelity ! There 
sat Maillard by torch-light, a drawn sabre on the table 
before him—his garments spattered with blood—offi¬ 
cers with arms to do his bidding standing around 
him—benches arranged and even lamps lighted to 
enable the spectators, among whom were many fe¬ 
males, to view the horrid scene! What consternation 
filled the doomed victims in their prison cells ! They 
are brought out—condemned unheard—and Jianded 
over to the multitude, waiting at the gates, and are 
cut to pieces. Here the devoted Mademoiselle de 
Sombreuil obtained a respite for her aged father by 
accepting the cannibal offer of the revolutionists, to 
drink a tumbler full of warm blood, fresh from their 
mutilated victims ! Here, too, a similar instance of 
filial affection and heroism was witnessed in the per¬ 
son of the young daughter of Cazotte, who, at the 
expiration of the thirty-six hours allowed him, threw 
herself between her father and his executioners, ex¬ 
claiming: “You shall reach my father only through 
my heart! ” The “ Cannes,” memorable for the 
massacre of upwards of two hundred priests, and of 
the Archbishop of Arles, is now replaced by a spa¬ 
cious market. Some few relics remain, and as I lin¬ 
gered near it, how vividly the scenes of Sept, 1792, 
passed before me. I could almost hear the venerable 
prelate reciting the prayers, litanies, and psalms, in 
which his companions joined; I could almost see him 
when he so nobly stepped forward and answered to his 
13* 


298 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


name, and was brutally murdered by the assassins. 
He, like his fellow-martyrs, was put to death because 
he refused the schismatical oath tendered by the revo¬ 
lutionary government. “ La Force ” has disappeared, 
but La petite Force, Hue Parvis au Marais, still re¬ 
minds us of the cruelties and massacres of the revo¬ 
lution. It was here that the Princess Lamballe suf¬ 
fered death. Who that has read her history, or can 
appreciate true friendship, but feels sad as he dwells 
on the name and self-sacrificing spirit of this noble 
woman! The friend and companion of Marie An¬ 
toinette—until the king fled to Yarennes; see her 
voluntarily returning from England, where she had 
been received with every mark of respect due her 
rank, her fortune, and her virtues, to share the fate of 
the royal family. Sharing the prison with Marie An¬ 
toinette in “ Le Temple,” and brutally dragged from 
thence to La Force. The ferocious Hebert, surround¬ 
ed by his minions with blood-stained swords, gar¬ 
ments and faces, awaits his victim ; Lamballe is 
brought before him; she swoons at the horrid sight 
—restoratives are applied—but she resolutely declines 
answering any of the numerous questions so arranged 
as to implicate the Queen. The word is given to 
drag her to the Abbaye, a sure index of her death; 
but scarce had she passed the threshold of the hall, 
when her head is nearly severed from the body by a 
stroke of a sword—a monster finishes the deed by a 
blow from a huge mallet. Without provocation or 
any personal dislike to her, the infatuated rabble 
vent their malice on her lifeless form—her heart is 
torn out—her head is severed from the body, placed 


THE TEMPLE. 


299 


on a pole, and, mid savage rejoicings paraded through 
the streets, in front of her former residence, and un¬ 
der the windows of the Temple, where Marie An¬ 
toinette was imprisoned ! What gloomy associations 
are connected with that name, Le Temple ! But little 
now remains of it—and the immense square it once 
occupied is a noisy market-place. It was here that 
in early ages the Knights Templar had their castle ; 
the only portion still existing is the Convent of Bene¬ 
dictine Nuns, which once formed a part of the Palais 
du Prior. This is a comparatively modern building, 
handsomely ornamented exteriorly. It was in the 
tower of this temple that Louis XYI. and his family 
were imprisoned—here he made his will and bade adieu 
to his wife and family, and was carried to execution ! 
There are two other prisons in the city which have 
recently attracted attention. The one of a melan¬ 
choly interest for Americans—the prison of Clichy, 
on the same street—where, through the unpardonable 
blunders of those in charge of the prison and the 
over-zealous sentry, an American, confined for debt, 
was lately shot under circumstances most painfully 
distressing. The other, the prison in Kue de la Ro- 
quette, where the assassin of the late Archbishop of 
Paris was confined--and where on the morning of 
his execution—a pitiful, wretched, despicable man, 
craving even for a single hour of life—abandoned by 
that false pride which had so long propped him up, and 
unsustained by the holy influence of religion, he gave 
to the world a sad example of human depravity. But 
let us change the gloomy theme. The heart sickens 
and the soul grows sad as we either visit these blood- 


300 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


stained places, or read their tale of horror. The prisons 
of Paris possess a melancholy interest. I will not speak 
of the five thousand butchered in them from the 2d 
to the 6th September, 1792—of the massacres of 
Bicetre, whose victims were thrown in trenches, and 
now till the catacombs under Paris—sad but natural 
result of the misguided principles of the revolution. 


CHAPTEE XXII. 


Place Yendome—Church of St. Roch—St. Jaque de la Boucherie—Place 
des Victoires—Church of St. Vincent de Paul—Sisters of Charity—N. D. 
de Lorette—Abbey and Tombs of St. Denis—Cemetery of Pere la 
Chaise—Seminary and La Solitude at Issy—Farewell to Paris. 

W E will occupy our remaining time in Paris by visit¬ 
ing a few places of interest, necessarily omitting 
many others. Let us turn our steps towards the high 
column and Place Yendome, an irregular octagon. 
This place is one of the prettiest in the city, sur¬ 
rounded by tall and uniformly built houses, and most 
scrupulously clean. In the centre formerly stood 
a colossal equestrian statue of Louis XIY.,—which 
was destroyed during the revolution. In 1806 the 
Emperor Xapoleon I, erected this imposing column, 
modelled strictly after the “ Colonna Trajana” at Eome, 
to commemorate the glories of the French arms. 
The main shaft is 140 feet high, the pedestal 22 high 
and 16 wide. It is of free stone, encased in 277 plates 
of metal, made from 1200 cannons captured from the 
Austrians and Prussians. These plates are prettily 
ornamented with bas-reliefs, commemorating the prin¬ 
cipal events of the campaign of 1805, up to Auster- 


302 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


litz. They are, like the bas-reliefs on Trajan’s column 
at Rome, arranged in a spiral form, reaching from the 
base to the capitol. The pedestal is ornamented 
with military designs, cannons, helmets, &c. A 
statue of the Emperor adorned the summit—but at 
the Restoration in 1814 it was melted down to form in 
part the equestrian statue of Henry IY., at present 
on Pont Heuf. During the reign of Louis Philippe, 
the “ Fleur-de-lis ” was removed, and the present noble 
statue of the Emperor was inaugurated. A narrow, 
dark stairway in the interior leads to the summit, 
but the view scarce rewards one for the fatigue 
of ascending. Hapoleon stands in an attitude of 
deep thought, wearing his familiar cap and sur- 
tout coat—his pensive brow, folded arms and fixed 
gaze, possess a grandeur which to be appreciated 
must be seen. Continuing our course east on Rue 
St. ILonore, we meet the church of St. Roch—said to 
be the wealthiest church in Paris. There is nothing, 
however, in either its exterior or interior to denote 
the fact. It is a plain-looking edifice, and to a stran¬ 
ger, possesses few objects of attraction. It dates 
from the year 1653, when Louis XIV. and his mother, 
Anne of Austria, laid the corner stone. The interior 
is confused and irregular. An idea of its massiveness 
impresses the visitor as he raises his eyes to the im¬ 
mense roof, 160 feet long, supported by 20 huge 
columns. There are 18 side chapels, but irregulaily 
arranged, and some of them so gloomy that no one 
would at first discover them. A very beautiful effect 
is produced in the “ Chapelle du Calvaire,” at the ex¬ 
tremity of the principal nave. By a window con- 


RUE DE RIVOLI. 


303 


cealed from the spectator, the light is reflected on a 
life-sized group, carved from the wood of Lebanon, 
representing our Saviour on the cross, Mary Magda¬ 
lene weeping at its foot—Roman soldiers, rocks, &c. 
There is. an unspeakable charm in the whole scene— 
heightened by the surrounding silence, gloom, and 
devotion. In the rear of the choir is the chapel of 
the Blessed Virgin—a perfect bijou. The cupola is 
beautifully frescoed. In 1830 the most obstinate 
fight between the people and the soldiers of Charles 
X. took place here, and in 1848 it was the scene of 
sanguinary struggles. It w T as the favorite church of 
Louis Philippe. 

Leaving St. Roch and crossing the Place du Palais 
Royal and the Louvre, we soon reach, on the Rue de 
Rivoli, one of the noblest specimens of ancient Gothic 
architecture in Paris. It is the only remaining 
tower of the ancient church of “St. Jaque de la 
Boucherie.” When the church was originally built 
is not known, but it fell a victim to the fury of the 
revolutionists, and was razed to the ground in 1793 
—leaving but this splendid tower to tell of its an¬ 
cient grandeur. It is nearly 200 feet high and has 
been used as a foundry. In 1830 the city purchased 
it, with a view to preserve so splendid a monument 
of architecture—and it now’ stands imposing and 
grand in its loneliness, in the centre of an open space. 

Rear the Palais Rational or Imperial, is the Place 
des Victoires, a large square surrounded by buildings 
of a regular style of architecture, each ornamented 
with Ionic pilasters. It was commenced by Feuill ade, 
a courtier of Louis XIV., who destroyed two exten- 


304 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


sive blocks of buildings in 1684, to open this splendid 
Place. It is a centre, from which numerous streets 
diverge in different directions, giving an air of liveli¬ 
ness to the square. In the centre of this immense 
place stands on a lofty pedestal an equestrian bronze 
statue of Louis XIY., in Roman costume. Like 
most other public monuments in Paris, this has had 
its vicissitudes. At first there was an immense gilded 
bronze group, representing Louis XIY. in his royal 
robes, treading under foot a Cerberus-—and behind 
him was Yictory, placing a crown upon his head. 
During the revolution this was destroyed and re¬ 
placed by a pyramid, on which were inscribed the 
victories of the Republic—this in turn was supplant¬ 
ed by*a colossal bronze statue of General Desaix, which 
in its turn, like that of Hapoleon in Place Yendome, 
was melted to form the equestrian statue of Henry IY., 
under the Restoration. The present imposing statue 
was executed by the celebrated sculptor, Bosio, and 
was inaugurated in 1822. The King is represented 
in Roman costume, bare-headed ; a laurel wreath en¬ 
circles his brow, while long-flowing hair serves, in 
my opinion, to add dignity to the bold, manly face— 
an effect I never before witnessed. A mantle is 
gracefully thrown over his shoulders—while with a 
calm, determined mien, he manages his prancing 
war steed, which, like the admirable production of 
our own Mills, in Lafayette Square, Washington, 
stands apparently self-poised on his hind legs. It is 
a noble affair—and it was only after close study that 
I could discover the well-concealed support derived 
from fastenings by means of the full tail which 


NOTRE DAME DES VICTOIRES. 


305 


reaches to the pedestal, the two principal fronts of 
which are faced with white marble, elaborately sculp¬ 
tured. Almost immediately in the rear of this place 
is the church of “Notre Dame des Yictoires,” erected 
in 1629 by Louis XIII., in gratitude to Heaven for 
the taking of Rochelle, and for his other victories. 
It is a favorite place for devotion, crowds of pious 
worshippers being always found around its altars. In 
form it is a Latin Cross, and within its walls are 
some valuable paintings by Yanloo. 

One among the most gorgeous churches in Paris 
is that of St. Yincent de Paul, or Place Lafayette, 
opposite Rue Haute Yille. It is of quite recent date. 
There is something grand and imposing about this 
church; situated on a commanding eminence, it is 
approached by a winding carriage road, well gravel¬ 
led and preserved—a graceful flight of steps leads to 
the portico—the facade, grand and imposing, is flank¬ 
ed on each side by a tower 140 feet high, each 
having a singularly-constructed clock, and being 
divided into four stories, ornamented with Grecian, 
Ionic and Corinthian .pilasters. One of these clocks 
tells the hours of the day—the other the days of the 
month. The interior is more like the ancient churches 
in Rome than any I visited in Paris, with perhaps 
one exception, that of “ Notre Dame de Lorette,” Rue 
Lafayette. It is divided into six aisles beside the prin¬ 
cipal nave; these are separated by Ionic pillars, 
while the side aisles are divided into chapels by 
richly-ornamented and gilded bronze railings; the 
cupola over the choir is supported by fourteen Ionic 
columns arranged in a semicircle. There is a profu- 



306 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


sion of gilding, stucco work, polished marble and 
paintings. Among other curiosities is a superb stain¬ 
ed glass window, in which St. Vincent de Paul is 
represented surrounded by his spiritual children, the 
Sisters of Charity. It is inexpressibly grand. I 
stood for a long time on the porch of this church, 
looking at the panorama spread out before me. It 
was sunset—and from countless spires, domes, and 
crosses, the sun’s last rays were reflected. The sur¬ 
rounding square and streets were silent—one by one 
pious worshippers entered the vast building, and I was 
roused from my reverie by the loud, deep tones of an 
organ. I entered the church again—one of the side 
altars was lighted for Benediction. The scene was 
deeply impressive, and proclaimed the spirit of faith 
which animates so many in France. 

This morning, while looking for the Dominican 
Church and Convent, on the south side of the Seine, 
my attention was attracted by a long procession, 
passing at a slow pace to a church at some distance. 
On inquiry I learned that they were the Sisters and 
Novices of the Mother House of St. Vincent de Paul. 
It was a feast day with them, and they were proceed¬ 
ing to the Church of the Lazarists where their Supe¬ 
rior General resides. With others, I stopped to gaze 
on this band of heroines as they entered the church, a 
neat and tastefully-ornamented edifice; there were 
upwards of six hundred. To the moralist and phi¬ 
lanthropist what a subject of admiration did they pre¬ 
sent. Who but has heard of and admired the Sisters 
of Charity ! Like angels of mercy hovering around 
the sick and poor—the victim of crime—the raving 


SISTERS OF CHARITY. 


30T 


maniac—the orphaned child—and the plague-stricken. 
Fearless she moves, mid pestilence and death, to bear 
comfort to the suffering, hope to the dying. 

“ Unshrinking where pestilence scatters his breath, 

Like an angel she moves ’mid the vapors of death. 

Where roars the loud cannon and flashes the sword, 
Unfearing she walks, for she follows her Lord. 

How sweetly she bends o’er each plague-tainted face, 

With looks that are lighted with holiest grace ; 

How kindly she dresses each suffering limb, 

For she sees in the wounded the image of Him! ” 

Oh, there is something sublime in their vocation— 
in their courage and noble fidelity. Who can tell the 
pangs it cost these meek followers of the Lamb to 
burst asunder every tie which bound them to parents 
—family—and home ! Who may expose to view the 
parting scene—the last embrace—the wild burst of 
anguish from a father’s heart—a mother’s scalding 
tears—a sister and a brother’s grief as the sad fare¬ 
well was spoken ; and many among this youthful band 
left affluence, rank and honors, to join the society of 
the Sisters of Charity ! Here they are, novices and 
professed—some worn down by age and labor, feebly 
tottering to the church on this their feast, with quaint 
white hood—dark habit, that cheerful smile—does it 
not seem that the blessings of unknown thousands are 
hovering over them—that the prayers of the suffer¬ 
ing, the dying, and the orphan, are ringing like soft 
music in their ears-—and that their brows are fanned 
by angel wings ? And here come the novices—fol¬ 
lowing in the train, as they are learning to walk in 
the footsteps of the professed Sisters. Soon they will 



308 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


leave the parent house, and go forth on their mission 
of mercy—to bless the poor—to be nurses in hospi¬ 
tals—mothers to the orphan—instructresses to the 
ignorant—friends to all. Blessings on you, daughters 
of St. Yincent! Glorious and u exceedingly great ” 
shall be your reward. Arduous and painful is your 
vocation, but there will be a protecting shield thrown 
around you by the prayers and benedictions of the 
poor. Your good deeds shall go before you. The 
tears of the orphan and of the afflicted shall blot 
from Heaven’s register the record of human faults— 
the widow’s prayers shall plead in your behalf—while 
the blessings of the poor shall be echoed, as good 
spirits whispering to your departing souls. Tranquil 
be your exit from time to eternity—and may a dia¬ 
dem of glory adorn your brows in Heaven, noble 
Sisters of Charity! 

The scene within the church was grand. I lin¬ 
gered but a short time as it was crowded almost to 
suffocation, and I left to continue my visits. 

I should long since have mentioned my visit to the 
church of u Notre Dame de Lorette,” on Eue Lafayette. 
A gaudy, spacious edifice, having in its arrangements 
and decorations much to admire and much to con¬ 
demn. It is modelled after the early Koman churches, 
being an oblong square, 89 feet by 229. Hearing 
much of its gaudy interior, I was induced to pay it 
at least a transient visit. So treading my way as best 
I could through the muddy, crooked and crowded 
streets of that quarter, I found the church. Exte¬ 
riorly there is but little to attract attention. The in¬ 
terior is a strange medley of ornament, luxury, and 


NOTRE DAME DE LORETTE. 


309 


Christianity. There are many opinions relative to 
its claim to any thing like a Catholic church—some 
ridiculing the idea, others dealing less harshly with 
its superabundance of gilding, cushions, and finery. 
While I found Notre Dame de Lorette little if any in¬ 
ferior to the gilded saloon called La Madelein, there was 
one point which gave it the superiority in my estima¬ 
tion over many of the churches I had seen in Paris. 
Whether that superiority be based on the zeal of the 
pastors, the piety of the parish, or both, I know not 
—but I found there what I nowhere else happened 
to find, save at St. Eustache, immense schools of boys 
and girls under the guidance of their respective 
teachers—the Brothers for the boys, and some reli¬ 
gious order of females for the girls. The church was 
literally filled with them, and I thought of other 
days and of familiar scenes while I listened to their 
hymns of devotion. 

Passing by the Exchange or Bourse, the extensive 
buildings known as the “ Conservatoire,” with its 
wealth of curiosities and scientific discoveries, we 
will proceed to the railway station on Bue Lafayette, 
or signal' the way train, and take our seat cozily for a 
hurried trip to the ancient burial-place of the kings 
of France, the Abbey of St. Denis. It is in the town 
of the same name, about three and a half miles from 
Paris. The town has nothing of interest to a stran¬ 
ger, except its history and its associations. The 
Abbey entombed the remains of nearly every king 
of France from Clovis to Louis XYIII.; but when 
the storm of the revolution swept over that devoted 
country, this silent resting-place of the dead was in- 


310 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


vaded—the ashes there mouldering were scattered to 
the winds, and Vandal rage desecrated many of the 
monuments. Some, however, still remain, sad me¬ 
mentoes of departed royalty—silent monitors to the 
living. 

It is unnecessary to dwell at length on the early 
history of this abbey. The legend connected with 
its origin seems unsupported by history, and we pass 
it by. It dates far back in antiquity, since we find 
it recorded that in 496 the original chapel here erect¬ 
ed was enlarged—that in the following century a con¬ 
vent of Benedictine Monks was here established— 
that Chilperic, the son of Dagobert, was here buried 
—that Pepin le Bref was here consecrated in 754— 
and that the present towers and porch were built in 
1140. The church is purely Gothic—and notwith¬ 
standing the ravages of the revolution, still presents 
a grand and solemn appearance. The fagade is 
bold, lofty and imposing. Bas-reliefs adorn the 
three retiring arched door-ways—while statues of 
angels occupy the niches. The church interiorly 
forms a Latin Cross, divided into a nave and two side 
aisles ; the railing separating the choir from the nave 
is beautiful. Around the church are the tombs of 
the kings of France. Among them that of Dagobert, 
with a quaint design in bas-relief—of Louis XII. and 
Anne of Brittany—that of Henry II. and of his 
Queen, Catharine de Medicis. Among the many 
objects of interest here, I was most forcibly struck at 
the simple marble pillar erected by Mary Stuart, to 
the memory of her youthful husband, Francis II. ; 
also by a kneeling statue of Marie Antoinette, said 


PERE LA CHAISE. 


311 


to be a perfect likeness. It would require an entire day 
to examine the many curiosities here—so we will retrace 
our steps to the station house, and in less than ten 
minutes find ourselves once more in Paris. 

We must pass over many places of interest to 
which even a hurried visit is replete with instruction— 
the Jardin des Plantes, the Manufacture des Gobe¬ 
lins, &c. 

I had long wished to visit the celebrated Cemetery 
of Pere la Chaise; and, as the weather to-day was 
balmy as a summer morning, I strolled alone to this 
interesting spot. Few places in Paris interested me 
more. I had heard and read much of this “ City of 
the Dead,” but I was not prepared to find so complete 
a realization of the idea. It is indeed a silent city— 
peopled with many thousands—but these thousands 
heed not the busy scenes passing above them. u They 
sleep their last sleep ” till the dread accounting day 
—the winds of heaven sigh above their graves—and 
loving hands and faithful hearts adorn their silent 
resting-places. Sad indeed, yet pleasing to the.soul, 
it is to walk among these mementoes of the past—on 
every side the emblem of salvation, the cross, gleam¬ 
ing in the sunlight over chapel and tomb, over long 
vistas of graves adorned with fresh-culled flowers, or 
mourning wreaths—lovely little shrines and oratories, 
sweet, holy places provided with kneeling stools— 
with crucifix and prayer-book, which the touch of 
Vandalism never desecrates, and where the sad heart 
may come to pour itself forth in prayer for the de¬ 
parted, and supplication for the living—graceful, 
undulating grounds, the hill, the valley, the withered 


312 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


leaves falling in crimson showers, silent emblems of 
mortality, telling the wanderer, * as they fall, “All 
that’s bright must fade, the brightest e’en the fleetest,” 
and covering the simplest grave equally with the 
gorgeous marble, with a pall more impressive than 
art can offer. Oh, it is a sacred spot! As I wandered 
alone among these tombs, I felt unusually sad—not 
that the place wears a gloomy aspect, but there 
seemed here a struggle, I thought, between the 
higher and holier feelings of our nature and that 
hollow-hearted, empty vanity so general in society. 
All around me was imposing—grand—solemn, if you 
will;—I was among tombs, graves, mausoleums, 
costly marble piles, shattered columns and sacred 
emblems of death ; but to me a walk in the simplest 
country grave-yard seemed more productive of holy 
thoughts. Here I felt, that though among the dead, 
I still lingered among the pride and folly of the 
world; the almost pagan pagoda side by side with 
the sweet little Gothic Chapel—the senseless pile of 
stone or marble above the rich man, casting its 
shadow as if in proud disdain upon the grave of the 
poor man—here knelt in tearful prayer a child above 
a mother’s grave—and hard by was a pompous column 
sacred, I thought, to nothing but pride—here gentle 
hands were decking the graves of parents, children, 
sisters or brothers, with wreaths of flow r ers culled 
with care; and then, close by, is the richly-carved 
marble, emblazoned with heraldic devices, pompous 
epitaphs, and worldly emblems. It is true there are 
many sweet spots here for salutary thought—the 
family vault in shape, a chapel some six or eight feet 


PERE LA CHAISE. 


313 


in length, surmounted by a cross and supplied with a 
chair, a prie-Dieu or kneeling-stool within—a little 
crucifix—stained window reflecting a subdued light 
—a grated door in front, and vases of fresh flowers 
renewed each day by the hand of affection—the busts 
of departed members of the family—selections from 
the Holy Book—a statue or painting of the Madonna 
—tapers burning on festive days and on the anniver¬ 
sary commemoration. There is in all this something 
exquisitely refining to our grosser nature ; and, while 
he lingers near such scenes, the stranger, be he Chris¬ 
tian or infidel, Catholic or Protestant, learns to love 
the spirit of that Church which hallows thus the 
memories and resting-places of the dead. Hot here, 
as among those who believe not in the interchange 
of kindly offices between the loved and gone, and 
sorrowing survivors, is found that cold shrinking from 
the grave as if disease or death exhaled from the sod; 
not here does the stranger find that unchristian sel¬ 
fishness which makes so many turn from the tomb as 
the door closes on its rusty hinges, grating harshly on 
the ear, shutting out at once all thought, all hope, all 
communication ! but on every side he sees flowers and 
garlands, sweet evidences of lasting love, of frequent 
prayer, of oft-repeated visits. Be it the prompting 
of a faith which teaches the utility of praying for the 
dead, or mere sentimentality, it speaks of refined 
humanity and appeals to our hearts; yet I cannot 
conceal from myself that even the simple country 
grave-yard impressed me with more solemn thoughts 
than Pere la Chaise. There, ’mid simple crosses, 
mounds and tombs, man feels indeed that he is but 
14 


314 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


plodding his way through thorns, and trials, and suf¬ 
ferings to the grave. Here there is much to attract 
the stranger’s attention, names famous in French his¬ 
tory ; poets, warriors, statesmen, philosophers, orators, 
actors ; a Balzac, Erlis, La Fontaine; a Cottin, St. Cyr, 
Gobert, La Place, Talma, Fory, Bellini, Lavalette, 
Casimir Perier, all grand and gorgeous tombs; 
while the unmarked grave of Hey, “the bravest of 
the brave,” and that of Sir Sydney Smith, attracts 
no small share of attention. 

There is too much regularity for the effect in¬ 
tended—whole rows of tombs, like buildings in a 
block; and if the stranger could but divest himself 
of the recollection where he was, it would be an easy 
thing to imagine himself in a gay and lovely city. 
Among the tombs which attract most attention on 
entering, is that of the famous Heloise and Abelard, in 
whose history and fate there is so much of mawkish 
sentimentality expended. It is indeed a beautiful 
affair, a Gothic Chapel 14 feet long, 11 broad, and 24 
feet high. It is not my province to censure others, 
but it seemed to me rather a mockery of religious 
respect to pile up thus the costly marble to perpetuate 
the names of those who would doubtless be more 
benefited by a simple “ Pray for them ! ” above the 
grave; while here, there is almost as much of pomp 
and pageantry as in the gayest streets’ of Paris. 
Happy the man who can soar above these externals, 
and remember that he is among the dead. It was 
not my good fate; and, as I stood above a newly- 
made grave, I could but wish that when I am dead, 
no costly stone or senseless marble be erected over 


RAVIGNAN. 


315 


me; that in my own native land, among love and 
loving ones, my humble grave might be ; a simple 
cross to mark the spot, my name upon it; that when 
the stranger comes, or those who knew him best, the 
fervent prayer for rest, and peace, and pardon for his 
soul, may be breathed for him who will be slumber¬ 
ing beneath! 

The last day of my sojourn in Paris was agreeably 
diversified. Early in the morning I paid a visit to 
the celebrated Father Pavignan, a "worthy son of 
Ignatius of Loyola. He is somewhat advanced in 
years, simple in his manners, and, like all truly great 
men, apparently unconscious of the might that slum¬ 
bers in his soul. I had not the good fortune to hear 
him either preach or lecture; but, from many who 
had listened to his conferences in Hotre Dame, 1 
learned that the dense crowds which filled those 
ancient w'alls, seemed carried away by the force of 
his eloquence. He has a style of oratory different 
entirely from the powerful Lacordaire, the Domini¬ 
can. Each is a giant of intellect, a powerful cham¬ 
pion of the faith. As I conversed with F. Ravignan, 
and watched his varied expression of countenance, I 
tried to study the man. His is, indeed, an expressive 
face—not unlike that of Father Dubuisson, formerly 
in the United States. I passed an hour in most 
agreeable conversation, he seeming delighted to hear 
such recent news from America. Ho one can be in 
his company without feeling the influence of that 
soul, so good, so great, vast, and powerful! 

About noon, in company with Father Deluol, I 
repaired to Issy, where the charming country seat of 


316 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


the Sulpitians in Paris is situated. Of Issy itself 
little need be said; it seems a mere faubourg of Paris, 
having at least one parish church, and possessing 
little of interest to the stranger. All my pleasure 
was found in the Seminary and grounds of the Sul¬ 
pitians. The building itself is rather a gloomy pile, 
brick floors, small windows, and to me wore a chill¬ 
ing aspect; but the happy faces, cheerful voices, and 
merry laugh of a large number of students, soon con¬ 
vinced me of my error, and I involuntarily sighed, 

“ Would I were a boy again! ” 

It was a day of recreation ; and in company with 
several of the seminarians, among whom at the time 
was Mr. Doane, a son of the Protestant Episcopal 
Bishop of New Jersey, I visited the entire institution. 
The students here pursue their ecclesiastical studies 
until they have gone through the regular course of 
Moral Philosophy, when they are transferred to the 
Grande Seminaire of St. Sulpice in Paris. How 
shall I speak of the walks and gardens of the Semi¬ 
nary at Issy and La Solitude! It is almost a para¬ 
dise. Shady trees, meandering streams, mimic lakes, 
walks overshadowed by vines and gracefully-inter¬ 
mingled flowers; here a cross to remind the student 
where he is; there a Madonna smiling upon her child; 
the form of some old priest, gray-headed and bent 
with years, moving slowly among the trees or walks 
as he recites his breviary or cons o’er the pages of 
theology he taught half a century ago; the grotto 
where the two noblest heads, ever bent in submission 
before the chair of Peter, Bossuet and Fenelon, met 


THE ABBE EMERY. 


317 


to hold their amicable discussions, the lovely chapel 
modelled on that of the Holy House of Loretto, and 
then “ La Solitude,” or house of probation for those 
who are to join the Society; its treasures of relics, 
religious antiquities ; its beautiful chapel; the death¬ 
like silence reigning around this portion of the exten¬ 
sive grounds,—well may the Sulpitians preserve their 

motto, “ O BEATA SOLITUDO ; O SOLA BEATITUDO ! 

With Father Deluol I knelt above the graves of the 
holy men reposing within the silent cemetery. Here 
lies the Abbe Emery, whose name is held in venera¬ 
tion as almost a second founder by the Society, the 
noble champion of the rights and privileges of the 
Church during the Revolution—the only man, it has 
been said, whom Napoleon feared, because he vene¬ 
rated him so highly ; twice imprisoned for the guillo¬ 
tine ; and, even in his prison, the Apostle of recon¬ 
ciliation to numerous misguided souls, among whom 
were the apostate Fauchet, whom he induced to return 
to the bosom of the Church, whose confession he 
received, and whose recantation he witnessed; that 
other apostate, Bishop Lamourette, who met in the 
prison of the conciergerie the Abbe Emery, and who 
was brought back to the fold of truth and unity by 
that good man, ere Lamourette, like Fauchet, suffered 
by the guillotine. Few could meet undaunted the 
eagle glance of Napoleon, and fewer still had courage 
to brave his anger by declaring the truth to him. 
The Abbe Emery feared not his anger, and shrunk 
not from an open, prudent avowal of right, of con¬ 
science, and of religion. Napoleon loved and feared 
him, and is said to have exclaimed, on hearing of his 


318 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


death, “ I have lost tlie greatest man in my empire ! ” 
His grave, like all the rest, is marked by a simple, 
black, wooden cross, bearing his name and age. It 
was a balmy day ; the winds rustled among the trees 
as on a summer evening; the only sounds I heard 
were the voice of my old Superior, whispering a 
“ De profundis,” and the sweet notes of birds from 
adjoining trees. Thoughts of other days came over 
me; scenes long since gone, and as vivid yet as of 
yesterday, passed before me. I thought of the chapel 
grounds and Calvary of old St. Mary’s in Baltimore ; 
of youthful days there passed ; of loved companions ; 
some gone—others struggling in the vineyard of the 
Lord ; of the chapel and the altar ; of the old Superior 
with his spiritual children gathered before that altar 
on a Sunday evening for Benediction ; the rays of a 
setting sun reflected over sanctuary and shrine, 
through rich crimson curtains ; the sweet voice of 
one then a boy, long since a zealous priest, sweetly 
accompanying good old Mr. Kelly, whose clarinet 
notes thrilled the soul to the soft music of “ Sitivit 
anima mea; ” then the loud, full chorus, would go 
up from grateful hearts, mid clouds of smoking in¬ 
cense. O, how sweet are the courts of the Lord ! A 
spot there, too, sacred to the dead, I loved to visit; 
the old Calvary, with its cross-crowned summit, and 
the graves of a Hoskyns, an Ogden, a Walsh, a Tes- 
sier, a Joubert, and a Schrieber. 

My kind old Superior was now, like his child, far 
from scenes he so loved, and I thought I discovered 
a tell-tale tear as we dwelt upon them. The shades 
of evening were gathering o’er us ; I took a reluctant 


FAREWELL ! 


319 


leave of Issy, and slowly we wended onr way back 
to Paris. A few moments more, and I was to part 
again with Father Deluol. I will not dwell on the 
scene ; but, as I knelt to get his blessing, I felt that 
his prayer would still preserve me. A hurried prep¬ 
aration for my journey, and by 10 p. m. I was at 
the depot for Lyons. Farew r ell, then, to Paris, that 
city, par excellence, of Europe—that world in minia¬ 
ture ! I have passed many happy days within her 
walls, and learned much of her, past and present. It 
is a study for years. Her name and her arms are 
known to the world; the roar of her cannon, the 
sound of her drum, the tramp of her embattled armies, 
the eagles of her empire, and the quenchless fire of her 
soldiery, have been heard and felt and seen amid the 
wild havoc of war ; battle-fields—crumbling temples 
—burning cities—desecrated churches—and wounded 
and slaughtered millions—but her missionaries have 
gone forth to the utmost bounds of the earth; and, 
while her “ war’s desolation ” has. filled nations with 
bloodshed, the banner of the cross has been borne 
along, the prostrate have been cheered in their dying 
moments, and the French missionary has pointed the 
red man of the West—the pagan of the East—the 
hardy Laplander, and the savage hordes of the South 
—to the only true source of happiness. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


Leaving Paris—l)ijon—Notre Dame—Desecration of Churches—Public 
Museum—Philip Le Hardi—Ducal Palace—its Museum—Drinking wine 
—Peculiar smoothness of Railroads in France—Country between Cha¬ 
lons and Dijon—Police arrangements on Railroads—French Peasantry— 
Abbe Chalons—Lyons—Early History—Early Persecutions—Yiew from 
the hill of Fourvieres —Reign of Terror in Lyons—Strong Fortifications— 
Cathedral—La Belle Cour—Place des Terreaux—Hotel de Yille—Palais 
de Justice—Silk Factories and Looms—Avignon—Cathedral—Crillon— 
Claude Joseph Yernet—Ivory Crucifix—Trait of Bishop of Chalons sur 
Marne—Fountain of Petrarch—Danger of sleeping in Cars—Marseilles 
—Yisit to Bishop—Scenes, Sights, and Sounds in Marseilles—Polite 
Soldier and Zouave—Stars and Stripes—Churches—Notre Dame de la 
Garde—Yiew from Heights—Climate—Preparations for departure— 
Farewell to France. 



EATING Paris at 10| p. m., there was little 


Jj opportunity to see the country, or even my trav¬ 
elling companions, before daylight. The morning of 
Friday, 30th Nov., was exceedingly cold—rain fall¬ 
ing, and freezing as it fell—sudden change, indeed. 
As heretofore, our cars were like those of a menagerie, 
containing almost every specimen of biped. I suf¬ 
fered most intensely with cold and illness. I stopped 
at Dijon, the birth-place of Bossuet, for a short time; 
and, after a most decidedly poor breakfast, I hurried 
to the grand cathedral, whose queer “fleche” or 
arrow-shaped steeple, has been so much admired. 


DIJON. 


321 


Dijon contains 31,000 inhabitants, and is a decidedly 
dirty place ; the streets are narrow, houses high, 
crowded, without any regard to symmetry of archi¬ 
tecture—mostly of a grayish stone, moss-covered, and 
almost toppling with age. The inhabitants, as is the 
case in all provincial towns, have a peculiar dialect 
or patois at pnce harsh and amusing. The cathedral 
of St. Beninge is an imposing pile, flanked by two 
immense towers, and the fleche or spire rises from the 
centre of the roof to the height of three hundred feet, 
one-third more than the towers of Notre Dame Ca¬ 
thedral in Paris. Some admire these spires, and the 
one of which we are speaking is said to be in perfect 
harmony with the architecture of the cathedral. To 
me, however, they appear a deformity—a perfectly 
useless appendage, like a fifth wheel to a coach. The 
interior of the cathedral is grand; there are many 
elaborately-sculptured marble tombs and statues. A 
more pleasing edifice is the Gothic Church of Notre 
Dame, which dates from the 13th century. The front 
entrance is of light and pleasing appearance. Here 
I saw a most beautiful group in stone, the Assumption 
of the Blessed Virgin. In the tower is a singularly 
constructed clock; two colossal figures, with sledge¬ 
hammers, strike the hours. This is said to have been 
brought from Flanders by Philip Le Hardi, Duke of 
Burgundy, in 1382. There are some paintings here, 
but they seemed to me below par. 'The church is 
exceedingly neat—stone or marble-paved—and im¬ 
presses the visitor with a sense of religious awe. To 
me it seems revolting to see old churches desecrated 
from their legitimate object, and even in Christian 
14* 


c22 MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 

France appropriated to secular purposes; a noisy, 
filthy market-house here, and granary there ; and 
barracks for soldiers in different places; such is the 
fate of many ancient temples and convents where 
once adoring thousands knelt, and where the matin 
and the vesper hymn were chanted by sandalled 
monk or holy religious. I have no right to complain 
of it, yet it seemed a desecration ; and while I admired 
the sombre, almost frowning appearance Dijon wore, 
with its castellated towers, churches and walls—its 
ducal palaces and imposing edifices—I could but 
regret that these relics of other days w r ere not razed 
to the ground with respect, rather than devote them 
in their old age to such worldly objects ; with feel¬ 
ings akin to those with which I could wish to consign 
to the grave a tottering old man, rather than in his 
declining years devote him to labor, so would I scatter 
these ancient walls, sacred to the past, consecrated to 
God. 

I paid but a hurried visit to the Hospital of St. 
Ann—the Palais de Justice—the School of Arts, 
where I would wfish to linger to view the splendid 
paintings, truly gems of art, and hurried to the public 
museum. Here are seen several paintings, said to be 
originals, by Carlo Dolci, the celebrated Florentine 
artist, who died in that city, 1686, and whose produc¬ 
tions are admired no less for their artistic merit than 
their lifelike appearance. Here is also the tomb of 
Philip Le Hardi, so called even in his 16th year, from 
his incredible feats at the battle of Poitiers, and who, 
notwithstanding the unjust severity of some writers, 
was no less conspicuous for his generosity to a foe 


JOHN THE FEARLESS. 


323 


than for his fearless intrepidity. He died at Hal, in 
Hainant, in 1404. There is an interesting incident 
related by his historian, connected with his death. So 
prodigal had the Duke of Burgundy been, that at his 
death, though unbounded wealth had been at his dis¬ 
posal, there was not enough of his own to bury him 
Money was borrowed, his furniture was sold, and his 
Duchess, Margaret of Flanders, was, obliged to re¬ 
nounce all title to her possessions, by placing on his 
tomb her state badge, her keys, and her empty purse! 

Close by is the tomb of “ Jean Sans Peur,” his 
son and successor—the fearless foe of Bajazet, at the 
battle of Nicopolis in 1396, the assassin of the Duke 
of Orleans, who was the brother of Charles VI., King 
of France—the author of the horrid massacre of the 
Armagnac or Orleans party, in 1418—and finally him¬ 
self assassinated by Tanneguy in 1419. These tombs 
are singular specimens of carving and design. The 
bas-reliefs on both are exquisitely beautiful and ex¬ 
pressive. 

Perhaps the most striking edifice in Dijon is the 
palace of the acient Dukes of Burgundy. It is now 
used for government purposes. It is situated in the 
centre of the town, with a comparatively modern 
gateway or portal leading to a hollow square, the four 
sides of which loom up before you in solemn grandeur. 
The castellated towers, the grated windows, the loop¬ 
holes pierced for musketry and cannon give the whole 
edifice a warlike aspect; and I doubt not that it 
could withstand a severe attack. The huge gates 
once closed, the walls armed with cannon, and a sup¬ 
ply of ammunition and food within, it would be no 


324 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


easy matter to reduce tliis palace. To add to its mar¬ 
tial appearance, troops of soldiers are garrisoned here. 
Applying for permission to visit the interior rooms, 
I was politely attended by a soldier, who seemed well 
versed in its history and present state. Among other 
objects of interest here preserved, are the toilet-table 
of the Duchess of Burgundy, the wooden cup used by 
St. Bernard, who was born near Dijon, and a costly 
gold crosier, richly gemmed, said to have been used 
by St. Robert of the Cistercians. In the apartment 
known as the reception-room of the celebrated Conde, 
are many suits of armor of burnished steel. There 
are in the museum some admirable paintings ; among 
them several originals of Guido, Teniers, Rubens, Cor- 
regio, Domenichino, and a splendid head of St. John 
Baptist, attributed to Durer. 

Time did not allow me to visit the convent of 
Chartreuse, not far from the town. It is now, I 
learned, used for a lunatic asylum. Stopped at Cha¬ 
lons for a day; and at Macon was amused at the 
crowds who rushed into the cars with Burgundy wine 
in bottles, and cakes on trays. It was amusing to see, 
as we dashed on with lightning speed, so many apply¬ 
ing wine-bottles to their mouths, as unceremoniously 
as if it were a matter of course. On we sped, with 
that peculiar smooth and even motion of the cars in 
France. Indeed, I think, were materials before him, 
one could write with little less of ease in the cars than 
if seated in his room. The country between Dijon 
and Chalons, our principal resting-place before reach¬ 
ing Lyons, is richly cultivated. Even to the tops of 
the highest mountains, vine-clad fields and various 


FRENCH PEASANTRY. 


325 


crops occupy nearly every foot of ground. Numerous 
villages enlivened the scene—quaint-looking cottages, 
tiled roof and moss-covered—the parish church nearly 
always in an elevated spot, and as much as possible in 
the centre of the village, looking down upon the quiet 
hamlet like a watchful guardian, while the cross on 
the old steeple or tower seems to “ shield them from 
danger and guard them from harm.” A more inter¬ 
esting, lively, and peaceable people than the peas- \ 
an try of France, I think, nowhere exists. Wherever 
I have seen them they seem happy and contented; 
the old respected by the young—the young made 
companions by the old—while the aged cure, sur¬ 
rounded by a merry group, himself as cheerful as the 
children and grand-children whom he had baptized, 
and who were now frisking around him on the parish 
lawn. I was also forcibly struck by the police ar¬ 
rangements on the lines of railroad throughout 
France. Each road is secured against intrusion by 
cattle or travellers, either by carefully cultivated 
hedges or by wire fences. They are remarkably clean, 
gravelled, and raked. At every mile an officer is 
stationed with varied flags to telegraph the trains, 
and as they pass, he stands d la militaire , with flag 
furled and shouldered as a musket. I noticed occa¬ 
sionally an old dame, with perhaps her husband’s hat 
on, acting as a substitute for her “better half.” 
Another admirable arrangement is, the plan of gates 
at the crossings. These are closed at a certain hour, 
and an officer guards them until the trains have all 
passed. It is seldom indeed, from Havre to Marseilles, 
that the turnpike crosses the track, as a tunnel under. 


326 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


or a bridge over the road, obviates the necessity. The 
passengers are locked in the cars, which, unlike ours 
in America, have rows of seats the full width of the 
cars opposite each other. This has its advantages and 
inconveniences for both the travellers and the con¬ 
ductors. Thus far, and in fact until I had reached 
Marseilles, I have not seen a single individual under 
the influence of liquor—not even in Paris! No pro¬ 
fanity—no impoliteness; and if the countenance be 
an index of the soul, I really think the peasantry of 
France a happy and virtuous race. Their soil is rich, 
their fields and farms like gardens, and they seem con¬ 
tented whether they have much or little—the true 
secret of social happiness. 

As we approached Chalons we stopped at a little 
village, where an abbe entered our car. His head 
was a perfect study. Attired as I was, no one recog¬ 
nized me as an ecclesiastic, for clergymen travel 
through France and Italy in their clerical costume. 
I was edified at the respect shown him. He soon 
commenced reading his Breviary, and seemed ab¬ 
sorbed in his devotions. What a bond of union, 
thought I—what a beauty of discipline in the Catholic 
Church! I was no more a stranger—I felt no more 
as if in a foreign land, for before me, and in the coun¬ 
try around me, were the priests of the altar, reciting 
the same divine office I had but just concluded ; and 
uniting here, as all over the world, in the same sacred 
antiphons, psalms, and prayers. Fondly as I loved 
my Breviary before, I cherished it now more dearly 
than ever, for it seemed as a connecting link between 
the old and the new world for rae. 


CHALONS. 


327 


Chalons is a small town on the Saone, containing 
about seventeen thousand inhabitants. It is hand¬ 
somely built, contains an ancient cathedral, which 
dates from the thirteenth century, several other splen¬ 
did churches, an obelisk erected in honor of Na¬ 
poleon I., a public square and fountain, a museum, 
and an extensive library. Like every other specimen 
of public work in France, the wall dividing the public 
promenade from the river, is massive and complete. 
There is here an old church converted into a hospital 
for aged and infirm soldiers; numerous crafts, from 
the noisy steamboat to the punge or flat boat, dotted 
the river. 

At half-past three in the afternoon we reached the 
noble old city of Lyons, so celebrated for its early 
associations and its numerous factories. In extent, in 
wealth and splendor, it is reckoned among the first 
cities of France. The houses are generally of a hand¬ 
some style, the streets very narrow, and in many 
parts extremely gloomy from the great height of the 
houses. The rivers Saone and Rhone here unite, and 
the many and splendid bridges which cross them give 
Lyons the appearance of a city of bridges. The early 
Christian history of Lyons is replete wih interest. She 
has given to the Church, besides numerous pontiffs 
and defenders of the faith, her thousands of martyrs. 
It was in Lyons, under Marcus Aurelius, a. d. 177, that 
Pothinus the bishop, Sanctus the deacon, Attalus, 
Blandina the slave, Alcibiades, Ponticus the youthful 
soldier of the Cross, and forty-eight others, suffered 
martyrdom in its bloodiest forms. It was here the 
dauntless Irenseus with nineteen thousand Christians, 


328 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


was martyred under Severus in 202. It is more than 
probable that the amphitheatre where these butcheries 
were perpetrated, as in the Coliseum at Rome, for the 
brutal amusement of Pagan emperors, governors, and 
spectators, no less than in hatred to the Christian 
name, was in the portion of the city now called Four- 
vieres, where stands a lovely chapel in honor of the 
Blessed Virgin; and from which the eye takes in a 
lovely view, perhaps nowhere excelled. By means of 
a telescope, the visitor can trace Mt. Blanc in the far- 
off distance, the snow-capped Alps, the volcanic 
regions of Auvergne, and a varied scene of moun¬ 
tains, rivers, hills and plains; far beneath him lies the 
busy city—its gloomy streets, unsightly and crowded 
lanes shut out from view. The Rhone, from its moun¬ 
tain sources, swiftly rolls on to mingle its waters 
with the Mediterranean—the Saone, sparkling in the 
sun, gracefully winds among hills and mountains, and 
seems to vie with its rival the Rhone, until they meet 
almost at the base of this steep hill to tell each its 
tale of wandering from the Alpine snows and the 
vine-clad hills of France. Hor is the later history of 
Lyons less striking, for perhaps, next to Paris, it 
was the scene of the greatest butcheries during the 
French revolution in 1793 and 1794. It was in the 
Place des Terreaux and in the Hotel de Ville, that the 
Revolutionary Tribunal held its sessions, and erected 
the guillotine for the massacre of thousands. Here 
were re-enacted the bloody scenes of Paris, and the 
“ reign of terror ” in Lyons was scarcely less frightful 
than in the heart of the Republic. Even more brutal 
in his vengeance than Robespierre, Collet d’Herbois, 


LYONS. 


329 


with his monster associates, Conthon and Fouche, 
contrived a wholesale manner of slaughter, by ar¬ 
ranging the condemned in rows, and mowing them 
down in hundreds by grape and cannon-shot, while, 
if any escaped, they were mangled to death by other 
means ! A simple church now marks the spot where 
these butcheries were perpetrated. 

The church on this summit is said to be upwards 
of six hundred feet above the river. It is a neat de¬ 
votional shrine, numerous votive offerings and pious 
inscriptions adorning the walls. I found the descent 
from that high steep no less difficult than the ascent. 
There is a circuitous route for carriages, but foot- 
passengers descend by steps cut into the hill-side, 
with occasional offsets. I do not understand how any 
insurrection can break out in Lyons, if the govern¬ 
ment troops be garrisoned on this eminence, for it 
overlooks nearly every portion of the city; while at 
every short distance winding up the hill, are strong 
fortresses and towers pierced for cannon and muskets, 
sufficient, it would seem, to sweep the entire suburbs 
for miles. Whether this be the intention of such 
frowning battlements, or they be the remnants of the 
ancient Gaul, when the Romans built the city on these 
hills, because the present site of Lyons was unhealthy, 
I know not. It is an interesting fact, that many 
relics of these early days are still profusely seen here, 
in the shapes of altars, sarcophagi, and tombs. 

Among the churches, the Cathedral is most attrac¬ 
tive. It is Gothic, has numerous side chapels, and 
some exquisite paintings. I did not, however, tarry 
long within its walls. The churches of St. Paul and 


330 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


St. Hizier are imposing, and the antiquarian would 
find interest in the church of Aimy, where there are 
four columns once belonging to a pagan temple, dedi¬ 
cated to Augustus, but now supporting an immense 
cupola. 

“ La Belle Cour,” the largest and most splendid 
public square in the city, contains about fifteen acres. 
In the centre is a monument, but of what or of whom 
I cannot remember. It is a charming spot. “ La 
Place des Terreaux,” famous for its revolutionary as¬ 
sociations, is also an agreeable and popular prom¬ 
enade. Here are the Hotel de Yille and the Palais 
de St. Pierre. In the latter is the public museum. 
There is almost a countless number of curiosities here; 
but of them, with one exception, I have but a con¬ 
fused recollection. It is an ancient Roman plate or 
slab, on which is engraved a speech made by Claudius, 
while censor, on the rights of a Roman citizen. It is 
a singular affair, and notwithstanding centuries of 
entombment in the earth, from which it was rescued 
in 1528, the letters are still distinctly legible. 

The library of this city is said to be among the 
richest in France. The edifice is superb, and there 
are within its walls upwards of one hundred thousand 
volumes, and eight thousand manuscripts, in almost 
every language of the world. I will not speak of the 
halls of paintings, some of them of the old masters; 
nor of the extensive silk manufactories of Lyons. It 
would require a knowledge of mechanical arts, of de¬ 
sign and execution, to convey an idea of this almost 
new creation of order out of chaos. Silk looms to the 
number of sixty thousand, brocades, plain silks, dam- 


HOTEL DIETJ. 


331 


asks of every line and figure, costly shawls woven by 
the simplest movement of machinery, and out of what 
appeared to me a confused mass of colors, threads, and 
spindles—in truth, the whole affair seems confusing, 
and you stand and gaze and wonder how the picture 
grows before you—the life-like face, the rural scene, 
the stormy ocean, the placid lake, and flowers seem 
to bloom; and how ? All the stranger sees is the 
busy loom and shuttle, all he hears is the click of ma¬ 
chinery, and all that guides is perhaps a delicate 
female, or a laughing, whistling youth ! The work¬ 
men and women here employed appeared to me 
rather miserable. They are most unnaturally crowd¬ 
ed—eating, sleeping, and working, in many cases, in 
the same dark, gloomy rooms in which their looms 
are built. Some of these houses are ten, others even 
twelve and fourteen stories high—looms in some of 
them to the ninth story, and these, as well as others 
above them, filled with families. It may easily be 
imagined that the one entrance, common to all, is 
filthy and unwholesome. 

I have no words to express the admiration with 
which I was filled on visiting the velvet manufactory 
beyond the Rhone. If possible, it is even more sur¬ 
prising than the silk looms. The process seems sim¬ 
ple enough ; yet its simplicity, when we look at the 
results, is the greatest wonder of all; while more com¬ 
plicated than ail is the machinery for weaving lace. 

We must not leave the city of Lyons without a 
brief visit to the Hotel Dieu, an immense hospital, 
which is very correctly described by the observant 
Haskins in his travels. It is, indeed, a mammoth 


332 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


hospital. There were upwards of fourteen hundred 
beds occupied when I visited the house ; and the ar¬ 
rangement is so admirable, that from the centre, 
where stands the altar, and from which the rows of 
beds radiate, each patient can see the priest while 
offering holy mass. The number of Sisters of Charity 
here attending the sick is upwards of two hundred! 
There is another hospital, little, if any, less deserving 
a visit; it is L’Hopital de la Chari te. I paid but a 
passing visit to this asylum for the aged and for 
foundlings; but my stay was long enough to convince 
me of the noble heroism of soul which prompts the 
sisters attending to devote themselves to such labo¬ 
rious duties ; rather let me say, of the divinity of that 
religion which can prompt to such noble self-sacrifice. 

On the following day I took the cars for Avignon, 
en route for Marseilles. We arrived by daylight next 
morning. I regretted not stopping at Valence, but 
my desire to be in Rome early in December, induced 
me to continue my journey. Avignon is replete with 
interest. The traveller sees and feels that he is in 
another part of France, almost in another country, so 
much does Provence differ in almost every thing from 
the other quarters of France, in manners, dialect, and 
climate. The streets are ignorant of side-walks— 
narrow, crooked, and tolerably clean. The houses 
are low, rusty-looking, and moss-covered, as usual, 
tile-roofed and crowded together. It is said that, be¬ 
fore the Revolution, Avignon was called the “ noisy 
city,” from the perpetual clatter of its bells and 
clocks. Although many of its churches and convents, 
with their bells and clocks, have been destroyed, the 
city is still deserving the same title. 


AVIGNON. 


333 


Avignon was formerly a portion of the Papal pos¬ 
sessions ; and it was the residence of the Popes, it 
will be remembered, from 1303 to 1376, when 
Gregory XI. returned to Pome. The palace they 
occupied is now a garrison for soldiers and a prison. 
It is situated on a commanding eminence of rocks, 
overlooking the rest of the town. Its walls one hun¬ 
dred feet high, and the strong castellated towers, some 
of them 156 feet high, with loop-holes and grated win¬ 
dows, give this castle an imposing, even military ap¬ 
pearance. Avignon was also the scene of bloodshed 
during the revolution—and nearly a hundred victims 
are said to have been put to death in one of these 
towers by the bloodthirsty minions of Pobespierre. 
The style is Gothic. Its interior, as far as strangers 
are allowed to penetrate, corresponds with the fortress¬ 
like appearance of the exterior. The chapel, which 
is still in excellent preservation, is the only index to 
tell it was once the abode of the Dove of peace. 
There are here several curiously wrought tombs, 
among them that of Pope John XXII. 

The Cathedral is an ancient Pagan temple, which 
with little alteration has been dedicated to Christian 
worship. A vague, undefined sensation is experien¬ 
ced, as the traveller reflects, while gazing on altar, 
shrine and tomb, that on this very spot, Pagan rites 
were once performed by Pagan priests in honor of 
Pagan deities! There is here a grand mausoleum 
erected to the memory of Crillon, called “ The Brave.” 
There was something peculiarly touching in its style, 
in the bas-reliefs, and also in the tone and manner of 
my guide, the old custode, and I asked the history of 


334 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


this brave Crillon. “ Ah,” exclaimed the old man, 
brightening up, “ Crillon was the Bayard of his day— 
he was a Knight of Malta—a bold and fearless sol¬ 
dier—he was only 15 years old when he immortalized 
himself at the siege of Calais—he was one of the 
boldest on the fields of Jarnac, Moncoutour and 
Dreux, against the rebel Huguenots—and at the 
Lepanto, although wounded, he was deputed to con¬ 
vey the news of the .victory to France and to the 
Pope. When Henry II. proposed to him to murder 
the Duke of Guise, Crillon indignantly replied that 
he would fight him and conquer him—but that for no 
man would he stoop to the base act of assassination. 
When he was worn down with fatigues and wounds 
in defence of his king and country, he came to this 
place—and passed the remnant of his days in acts of 
religion. One day while listening to a sermon on the 
passion and death of our Lord, while the preacher 
was describing the scourging and indignities offered 
to the unprotected Lamb, Crillon struck his sword 
with energy and exclaimed, c 0, where was Crillon ! ’ ” 
Such was the history this good old man gave me of 
him, whose bones werd within this beautiful mauso¬ 
leum. There is also a statue of the Blessed Virgin, 
in marble, beside many paintings. The painter, Mig- 
nard, is buried in the church of St. Agricola, a plain 
unassuming edifice—while in the museum, where 
there are numerous paintings, some of them of doubt¬ 
ful merit, by Mignard, Perugio, Annibal Caracci, 
Durer, besides a galaxy of smaller stars, I was 
forcibly struck by a storm scene by Claude Joseph 
Vernet, who was born in Avignon, and of whose en- 


CHURCH OF MERCY. 


335 


thusiasm for liis art I had read in early childhood— 
never before had I seen an original by him—and now 
that I was standing before one, in the city of his birth, 
and mayhap in the place where his own eyes rested on 
it, I felt a peculiar pleasure. It was a storm at sea, 
the dark, thundering clouds—the forked lightning— 
the white-capped billows in all their sublime fury— 
the careening bark struggling against the fury of the 
elements, the strained shrouds, and ropes, and masts 
—and then the waves, his forte in painting—how they 
surged, and roared, and thundered on in mountain 
form with the resistless strength of the ocean, ready 
to burst from the canvas. O, it was sublimely ter¬ 
rible ! I could almost see Yernet, in his wild enthu¬ 
siasm, lashing himself to the topmast, that he might 
be carried backward and forward with the laboring 
motion of the ship, now high aloft, again nigh touch¬ 
ing the water, as the frail bark would roll and tremble 
beneath the combined force of wind and waves, or 
proudly emerge from one abyss, to mount again the 
angry w T aters ! Surely the soul of Yernet must have 
been inspired with such scenes—-for none have 
equalled his daring, as none have reached his per¬ 
fection. There are numerous other curiosities here 
—such as sepulchral lamps—glass vases, containing 
the ashes of the dead, taken from ancient Roman 
tombs, swords, idols, sarcophagi, &c. 

Within the church “ De la Misericorde” is a love¬ 
ly crucifix in ivory, which reminded me of the re¬ 
markable crucifix exhibited in the United States some 
years since, and which is now in the possession of the 
Right Rev. Bishop of Philadelphia. I regretted not 


336 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


being able to pay a flying visit to Vaucluse, the for¬ 
mer residence of the poet Petrarch, and where his 
fountain, ever calm and beautiful, still mirrors the 
overhanging cliff in its crystal waters. It is much 
frequented by visitors, and the same mystery still in¬ 
volves its origin, its almost fathomless depth and 
sweet waters, as when the enamored bard here sang 
his sonnets. I left Avignon with regret. There are 
many places of interest in and around it, which well 
repay the traveller for his trouble in reaching them ; 
but I was impatient to proceed, and again a sense of 
loneliness oppressed me. Early that evening I was 
on my way to Marseilles. We soon passed the chateau 
de Prilly, of whose original proprietor I remembered 
to have heard many interesting traits, both at Issy 
and in my own country. He was the only son of a 
nobleman, who destined him for the army. Although 
contrary to his inclination he acquiesced in the wishes 
of his father, entered the army, signalized himself at 
the battle of Hohenlinden, and in other campaigns. 
While yet a soldier he was one day promenading the 
streets of Chalons-sur-Marne, in Champagne, when 
he entered a church, unconscious of the rattling his 
sword made as he moved along the tile-paved floor. 
The cure was preaching at the moment, and, being 
no respecter of persons, he paused, and ordered the 
sexton to “ turn that man out.” Ho sooner said than 
done, and our young crest-fallen officer was uncere¬ 
moniously shown the door. Years passed by. That 
young officer, in 1808, became a priest, subsequently 
Bishop of Chalons-sur-Marne, and among the first 
visits he made was to that church, to thank the good 


MAKSEILLES. 


337 


oM cure for his fraternal correction ; but the cure had 
gone to receive his reward from a higher tribunal. 

I could not see Tarascon, as we reached it dur¬ 
ing the night. My expectations had been raised to a 
high pitch by the pictures, views, and sketches I had 
often seen of Marseilles. I had imagined it a very 
paradise of cleanliness, order, and perfection. Alas 
for the dreams of youth, and poetical as well as artistic 
licenses! The approach to the city is pretty and 
varied; the same high state of cultivation, old-fash¬ 
ioned villages, frightful tunnels, long bridges, &c.; 
but when you enter the city the charm is broken. I 
remember an episode in my last night’s travel. We 
left Avignon about eight p.m . I fell asleep during 
the night, which was cold and cheerless. It seemed 
the train stopped at some way station. At the mo¬ 
ment I awoke from my dream, and in a half uncon¬ 
scious state, imagined I was in the wrong car; so, 
seizing my valise, all I had, I jumped to the door just 
as the conductor locked it! Fortunately for me, else 
I had been left at a lonely station on a dark night, in 
a pelting rain storm ! We reached Marseilles at 9 
a. m., and being quite unwell from fatigue, cold, and 
excitement, I was glad to employ a porter to convey 
my valise to Hotel dTtalie, where I retired as soon 
as possible, and passed a part of this my first day in 
Marseilles. 

On the following morning I visited the Bishop, a 
venerable, fatherly man. He received me with every 
mark of affection, and gave me the necessary permis¬ 
sion to say holy mass. The city itself is a very Babel 
of all sights, sounds, and contusion; sights stranger 
15 


338 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


than those which greeted me at Havre, but relieved, 
now at least, by the bold Mediterranean sparkling 
before me, and bearing on its bosom shipping from 
every clime beneath the sun ; sounds of every kind ; 
the shrill voices of boys peddling their wares, the 
screaming notes of fish-women vending their finny 
stock in trade. Scarce an hour from the water, the 
gruff hoarse voices of Greeks and Turks engaged in 
earnest confab ; the tawny Zouave, with his red, flow¬ 
ing cap, queer-shaped red Turkish trousers, light-blue 
jacket, and then his long dark moustache, giving his 
face a desperately fierce appearance; long-bearded, 
steal thy-looking Jews, as if, Shylock like, resolved on 
their pound of flesh, no matter where, when, or how 
secured; noisy sailors, both in the streets, and with 
the old familiar “ Yo heave ho,” warping their ships 
from dock to dock, or loading or discharging cargo ; 
lively, fussy Frenchmen, bowing, dancing, and as gay 
as children just let loose from school; such are the 
sounds which greet me, as from my window in Hotel 
d’ltalie, on the principal quay, I look abroad upon 
the city and over the still, blue Mediterranean. If 
at “ Marche Heuf,” in Rouen, or the quays and boule¬ 
vards of Havre I had witnessed confusion, Marseilles 
exceeds them ten-fold. It is like a vast machine shop, 
confusion still worse confounded—noise, hurly-burly, 
activity, rushing men, screaming fisli-women, with im¬ 
mense loads on their hands, dashing equipages, rattling 
wagons, every species of quadruped yoked to carts^ 
and urged on at high-pressure principle, muddy 
streets, shipping as thick and endless almost as in 
Hew York, and a crowd apparently of the inmates 


MARSEILLES. 


339 


of Babel, scattering wildly at the confusion of tongues, 
such were my impressions of Marseilles. I stood for 
a while wondering, and, I may add, amused. It was 
in Marseilles that I saw the only example of intem¬ 
perance since I had left Mew York, and here it was 
in so laughable a form, so productive of good humor, 
of politeness and kind feeling, that it was, in my eye, 
almost excusable. I had wandered to the busiest por¬ 
tion of the city, following some curiously dressed 
people who were from the Levant. Observing a 
gathering I too stopped to see the cause. In the cen¬ 
tre of the group were two soldiers, recently returned 
from the Crimea, one a Frenchman, the other a 
Zouave from Algiers. Each was in his peculiar uni¬ 
form, and each was essentially drunk. They bowed 
so politely to each other, embraced so affectionately, 
and moralized so earnestly on the impropriety of 
drinking to excess ! Truly it was a tableau worthy 
the pencil of a Rembrandt or the pen of a Hogarth. 

Marseilles was founded by a colony of Pho- 
ceans from Ionia, about six hundred years before 
our Lord. It is situated on the east side of a splen¬ 
did bay or harbor, arid is a constantly increasing 
mart for the commerce of the East and Western 
Worlds. The city may be classed as the old and new. 
In the former the streets are without side-walks, nar¬ 
row, filthy, dark, crooked, and paved with rough 
stones a foot square. In the new there are many 
splendid edifices, some few public walks, and, 
above all, the famous ports or harbors. These form, 
perhaps, the chief centre of attraction in Marseilles. 
As they are the most frequented so are they the most 


340 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


superb on the Mediterranean. The bay is com¬ 
pletely land-locked, and seems to extend almost into 
the centre of the city by a natural basin, presenting 
even more strikingly than at Havre the singular ap¬ 
pearance of shipping among the stores and residences. 
The new harbor in process of construction will enable 
the city to accommodate the vast fleets of shipping 
ever visiting these shores. To me it was exciting to 
watch the various flags from the mast-head, as they 
floated on the breeze. The flag of Rome, with its 
keys and tiara; that of Austria, of Prussia, of the 
Grecian isles, the crescent of the Turk, and the Union 
Jack of England ; but high above them all, and first 
among them all, floated the starry flag of Columbia, 
proud emblem of my country, free and glorious. I 
have seen that banner towering above the halls of 
legislation, and proudly waving from the monument 
on Bunker Hill, from Fort McHenry, and on the 
ocean; every where I loved it, for it is every where 
beautiful, the emblem of freedom, of hope for the op¬ 
pressed, of terror to the foes of human rights; but 
never before had its “ Broad stripes and bright stars” 
gleamed so brilliantly for me as when I saw it in this 
foreign port. The flag of my country greeted my 
eyes ; involuntarily they filled with tears, my bosom 
heaved, and I exclaimed, For ever wave proud flag 
of freedom ! Thy red reflects the blood poured out 
by our fathers under thy ample folds ; thy blue, the 
heavens which protect thee; and thy white, the 
purity which should ever attend thee ! Thy starry 
gems are bright messengers of hope to the oppressed, 
and thy stripes have been left there by the young 


THE CHURCHES. 


341 


genius of freedom, who burst her bonds, and gave 
them as trophies to America—for ever wave, unsullied 
and honored no less abroad than 

u In the land of the free and the home of the brave.” 

The churches of Marseilles are not particularly 
attractive. There is little of interest even in that 
“ de la Major,” which was originally a pagan temple, 
dedicated to Diana, except a very singular bas-relief 
which dates from the twelfth century. The cathedral, 
when I was in Marseilles, was nearly destroyed, to 
make room for a new and extensive one which was 
then commenced. It stands in the old part of the 
city, and is approached by a most picturesque walk 
along the new harbor, up the steep hill, by lofty 
buildings perched like eagles’ nests high above you, 
and, alas, a walk most villanously dirty and filthy! 
The old cathedral must have been extensive, but no¬ 
thing now is left except one wing or nave, which, as it 
was Sunday, was literally crowded with school children, 
quaint dresses, and apparently very devout worshippers. 

This morning, Sunday 2d December, I said Holy 
Mass at the church of “ Mission des Etrangeres,” a 
large, circular-shaped and sombre edifice, filled with 
people, and having numerous side chapels. I noticed 
here, on the left, before entering the church, and pro- 
teted by an iron railing, a regular Calvary. It is a 
hill some ninety feet high, up which a rugged 
pathway leads, covered with rocks. On the sum¬ 
mit is a life-size figure of our Saviour on the cross, 
the implements of his torture and figures, of the vir¬ 
gin mother, St. John, and others. It seemed a place 


342 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


of nrncli devotion, and, doubtless, for those who fre¬ 
quent it, serves to recall the sorrowful scenes of the 
crucifixion. After mass I wandered to the old cathe¬ 
dral, stopping occasionally on the brow of the steep 
hill to gaze out on the Mediterranean, the islands in 
the harbor, the crowded city beneath me, and at the 
shipping on the wharves and in the bay, now like 
wearied birds with folded wings, floating on the wa¬ 
ters. Such a clattering of bells!—It is said that 
Marseilles is the city of bells. She deserves the title 
for that perpetual ringing from morn till evening. 
How, in moments like these, fancy will catch at the 
slightest resemblance between things present ' and 
things gone ! I could almost recognize in some loud 
chime the sounds of the old cathedral bell in Baltimore, 
and of other equally dear sounds, sweeping over the 
heart-like memories of bygone days, telling of home, 
of childhood, of innocence, and of peace; but the 
dream is soon over, and the “exile finds himself 
every where alone !” According to previous invita¬ 
tion, I dined to-day with the venerable Bishop of Mar¬ 
seilles, where I met the Bishop of Vivieres, and 
several of the clergy of the city. The good Bishop 
Eugene had many questions to ask relative to our 
American missions, and spoke in terms of the highest 
affection of his old friend the Rev. Dr. Damphoux of 
Baltimore, to whom he sent many playful messages, 
aud I hope to be pardoned for taking this public 
manner of delivering them in globo. 

There is a sweet chapel perched high on the sum¬ 
mit of a rocky cliff, which is held in great veneration 
by the sailors of Marseilles. It is called “Hotre 


NOTRE DAME DE LA GARDE. 


343 


Dame de la Garde.” Never have I witnessed more 
simple, edifying faith than here. Few places, save 
those associated with the history of our Saviour’s 
birth and sufferings, and the Holy House of Loretto, 
are approached with so much fervor. Here the hardy 
sailor comes before he spreads his sail for foreign 
climes—the fishermen of the Mediterranean, their 
wfives, their children, their parents, and their friends, 
to make an offering of their prayers, their hopes, their 
fears, in behalf of themselves, the absent, the loved 
and treasured, and breathe their vow of faith to Hea¬ 
ven through the hands of the sweet “ Star of the Sea,” 
Mary, the Virgin Mother, for the safe return of the 
storm-tossed sailor. Here may be seen an incongru¬ 
ous gathering of relics, homely pictures expressive of 
some rescue from death by fire or by water ; crutches 
of the lame who have tottered here, and gone on 
their homeward way rejoicing. Oh, it is a sweet 
spot. Let the ignorant and the bigoted sneer as 
they may, that power is not shortened which gave 
miraculous virtue to the bones of Elizeus, and the 
aprons and towels which touched the Apostle’s body. 
God is wonderful in all things. For my part, as I 
listened to the sweet, soft, silvery bell pealing forth 
the angelus here, and saw the simple faith of the 
crowds here kneeling, I could but feel that the prayer 
of faith would be heard of Heaven, aud that the 
lightning storm and the angry ocean would oft be 
hushed to silence, or pass harmlessly over by the 
voice of him who has said, “Ask, and thou slialt 
receive ! ” 

A view, little less interesting than from the 


344 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


heights of Lyons, greets the eye from the hill on 
which this church stands. The blue outline of the 
Mediterranean, an Italian sky in the distance, num¬ 
berless hills and mountains, the city, the isles, the 
ships, the Bastedes, or lovely white cottages which, 
to the number of several thousands, dot the hill-sides 
and plains around you ; the imposing harbor—all this 
is grand. In the distance is seen the Lazaretto, where 
the entire French army can find accommodation. 

The mountains around Marseilles are barren, 
rocky ; but the plains below are perfect gardens. 
Olives, grapes, oranges, figs, and other fruits seem to 
grow spontaneously. The atmosphere is balmy; a 
quiet, serene sky, seldom darkened by the thunder¬ 
cloud, still less frequently startled by the lightning ; 
springs abundant, invigorating air, bracing weather, 
blooming fields, abundant harvests,—such is the 
country around Marseilles. FTo wonder invalids 
flock to this place from the colder and higher lati¬ 
tudes of France. It seems almost a perpetual spring¬ 
time. 

There are but few promenades for the citizens. 
One of them is adorned with a bold, commanding 
statue of Belzunge, the Bishop of Marseilles, who one 
hundred and forty years ago, during the ravages of 
the plague, signalized himself by his devotedness to 
his flock, and proved himself a worthy pastor. His¬ 
torians give us a fearful picture of those days when 
half the citizens were swept off; but the Bishop, 
while sleepless and ceaseless vigils were his lot, ob^ 
tained from Heaven the cessation of the plague. It 
is of him that Pope, in his Essay on Man, says : 


FAREWELL ! 


345 


“ "Why drew Marseilles’ good Bishop purer breath, 

When nature sickened, and each gale was death ? ” 

I gazed with deep interest on this monument, 
erected to his name and virtues in the centre of the 
most public square. The evening was delightful, and 
crowds of persons, of every tribe, and tongue, and 
dress, and hue, were here congregated. 

But at 9J- p. m., to-night, Sunday, 2d December, 
I must quit “ La belle France.” Strangely enough, 
I had neglected to secure the visee of my passport 
until to-day, and it was with much difficulty that I 
succeeded. In fact, after seeking with the aid of a 
guide some hours for the American consul, I succeeded 
admirably in not finding him. I felt the fault was 
mine, and it was but a matter of courtesy whether he 
viseed my passport or not on a Sunday. The old Nea¬ 
politan steamer u Mongiebello,” was advertised to sail 
for Civita Vecchia, on Monday morning, and as the pas¬ 
sengers were to be aboard on Sunday night, I felt all 
anxiety. Almost in desperation I went to the office, 
stated my case, surrendered my passport, and was di¬ 
rected to be at the station by 8 p. m. A hasty prepara¬ 
tion, a last stroll through the streeets Canebiere and 
Beaurerau, a last brief visit to the Church of St. Martin 
to ask God’s blessing and protection on my yet untried 
voyage, and with many others, I found myself await¬ 
ing the diligence at the office at 8 o’clock. The un¬ 
wieldy vehicle soon comes lumbering along; “ &-bord ” 
sounds in our ears, and we are rumbled along through 
crowded streets and dark, to a part of the city which 
was gloomy indeed. The steamer was in the stream. 


346 


MY TRIP TO FRANCE. 


We were conveyed, six at a time, in almost painful 
silence, by little boats to the black, spectre-looking 
“ Mongiebello,” a filthy, contracted, and unwieldy 
affair. Our tickets demanded, our apologies for beds 
shown us, and here I was “ en route ” for Italy ! To 
sleep was impossible, even had I the inclination; for 
sounds, and sights, and smells, which all will recog¬ 
nize who have sailed in a Neapolitan steamer, would 
banish sleep from almost any eyes. Some, however, 
retired. Midnight came, and passed. I paced the 
deck in varied mood, and it was not till the first rays 
of morning dawned in the east, that anchor was 
weighed, steam raised, and I felt the old, familiar 
movement of a steamer. I stood and gazed on the 
shores of France, as they receded from my view, and 
in truth, I felt as almost quitting a second home. 
I thought of the lovely Queen of Scots, whose eyes 
streamed with tears as she gazed her last on La Belle 
France, and from the deck of her royal galley ex¬ 
claimed : 

“Adieu, plaisant pays de France! 

O ma patrie 
La plus cherie, 

Qui a nourri ma jeune enfance. 

Adieu, France! adieu mes beaux jours! 

La nef qui dfejoint mes amours 

N’a qy de moi que la moitie ; 

Une parte te reste; elle est tienne; 

Je la fie tl ton amitie, 

Pour que de l’autre il te souvienne ! 


So sighed I, adieu to France, land of happy 


FAREWELL ! 


347 


hearts, of science, and of history! I love thee be¬ 
cause thou wast kind to- the land of Washington when 
struggling for her freedom ; I love thee for thy mar¬ 
tial glory; but, most of all, I love thee because thou 
art Catholic! 


THE END. 


























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